HERE 

hii  Yt<.AiJ. 


IV! 


/  • 

*         « 


VILL  LILUBFDGS 


:>F  THE 

UNIVERSITY 
Of 


WHERE  THE  TRAIL  DIVIDES 


"All  right,  then,  Bess,   .    .    .   Good-night" 


Cttbcrc  the  Crail 
Divides 

By  WILL  LILLIBRIDGE 

AUTHOR  OF  "BEN  BLAIR,"  ETC, 


With  Frontispiece  in  Colors 
BY  THE  KINNEYS 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY, 
PUBLISHERS  v  NEW  YORK 


DQDD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
Published  March,  1907 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  PRESENTIMENT        ,.,        ,.,        M        M       ,.,  i 

II.  FULFILMENT            .         ...        :.;        ,.,        :.  15 

III.  DISCOVERY      .         ,.-        ,.•        ...        ,.,         .  27 

IV.  RECONSTRUCTION     ....         .  45 
V.  THE  LAND  OF  LICENCE  ....  50 

VI.  THE  RED  MAN  AND  THE  WHITE   .         .  72 

VII.  A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  UNKNOWN          .         .  89 

VIII.  THE  SKELETON  WITHIN  THE  CLOSET          .  105 

IX.  THE  VOICE  OF  THE  WILD        .         .         .122 

X.  THE  CURSE  OF  THE  CONQUERED       .  137 

XI.  THE  TREE  OF  KNOWLEDGE       .         .         .  152 

XII.  WITHIN  THE  CONQUEROR'S  OWN  COUNTRY  170 

XIII.  THE  MYSTERY  OF  SOLITUDE     .         .         .  197 

XIV.  FATE,  THE  SATIRIST        .         .         .         .214 
XV.  THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE  OF  KNOWLEDGE  225 

XVI.  THE  RECKONING    .....  240 

XVII.  SACRIFICE        ....         :.;        ...  252 

XVIII.  REWARD          .         .         .,        ,.,        M        ,..  269 

XIX.  IN  SIGHT  OF  GOD  ALONE        (.        *        ,.,  285 


iv:57S470 


Chapter  I 

PRESENTIMENT 

THE  man  was  short  and  fat,  and  greasy  above  the 
dark  beard  line.  In  addition,  he  was  bowlegged  as  a 
greyhound,  and  just  now  he  moved  with  a  limp  as 
though  very  footsore.  His  coarse  blue  flannel  shirt, 
open  at  the  throat,  exposed  a  broad  hairy  chest  that 
rose  and  fell  mightily  with  the  effort  he  was  making. 
And  therein  lay  the  mystery.  The  sun  was  hot — 
with  the  heat  of  a  cloudless  August  sun  at  one  o'clock 
of  the  afternoon.  The  country  he  was  traversing  was 
wild,  unbroken — uninhabited  apparently  of  man  or  of 
beast.  Far  to  his  left,  just  visible  through  the  danc 
ing  heat  rays,  indistinct  as  a  mirage,  was  a  curling 
fringe  of  green  trees.  To  his  right,  behind  him, 
ahead  of  him  was  not  a  tree  nor  a  shrub  nor  a 
rock  the  height  of  a  man's  head;  only  ungrazed, 
yellowish-green  sun-dried  prairie  grass.  The  silence 
was  complete.  Not  even  a  breath  of  wind  rus- 
tkd  the  grass;  yet  ever  and  anon  the  man  paused, 
glanced  back  the  way  he  had  come,  listened, 
his  throat  throbbing  with  the  effort  of  repressed 
breathing,  in  obvious  expectation  of  a  sound  he  did 
not  hear;  then,  for  the  time  relieved,  forged  ahead 
afresh,  one  hand  gripping  the  butt  of  an  old  Spring 
field  rifle  slung  over  his  shoulder,  the  other,  big,  un,- 

f 


2  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

clean,  sunbrowned,  swinging  like  a  pendulum  at  his 
side. 

Ludicrous,  unqualifiedly,  the  figure  would  have 
been  in  civilisation,  humorous  as  a  clown  in  a  circus; 
but  seeing  it  here,  solitary,  exotic,  no  observer  would 
have  laughed.  Fear,  mortal  dogging  fear,  imperson 
ate,  supreme,  was  in  every  look,  every  action.  Some 
where  back  of  that  curved  line  where  met  the  earth 
and  sky,  lurked  death.  Nothing  else  would  have 
been  adequate  to  arouse  this  phlegmatic  human  as 
he  was  now  aroused.  The  sweat  oozed  from  his 
thick  neck  in  streams  and  dripped  drop  by  drop  from 
the  month-old  stubble  which  covered  his  chin,  but 
apparently  he  never  noticed  it.  Now  and  then  he 
attempted  to  moisten  his  lips;  but  his  tongue  was 
dry  as  powder,  and  they  closed  again,  parched  as 
before. 

No  road  nor  trail,  nor  the  semblance  of  a  trail, 
marked  the  way  he  was  going ;  the  hazy  green  fringe 
far  to  the  east  was  his  only  landmark;  yet  as  hour 
after  hour  went  by  and  the  sun  sank  lower  and  lower 
he  never  halted,  never  seemed  in  doubt  as  to  his 
destination.  The  country  was  growing  more  rolling 
'now,  almost  hilly,  and  he  approached  each  rise  cau* 
tiously,  vigilantly.  Once,  almost  at  his  feet  a  covey 
of  frightened  prairie  chickens  sprang  a-wing,  and  at 
the  unexpected  sound  he  dropped  like  a  stone  in  his 
tracks,  all  but  concealing  himself  in  the  tall  grass; 
then,  reassured,  he  was  up  again,  plodding  doggedly, 
ceaselessly  on. 


Presentiment  3 

It  was  after  sundown  when  he  paused;  and  then 
only  from  absolute  physical  inability  to  go  farther. 
Outraged  nature  had  at  last  rebelled,  and  not  even 
fear  could  suffice  longer  to  stimulate  him.  The  grass 
was  wet  with  dew,  and  prone  on  his  knees  he  mois 
tened  his  lips  therefrom  as  drinks  many  another  of  the 
fauna  of  the  prairie.  Then,  flat  on  his  back,  not 
sleeping,  but  very  wide  awake,  very  watchful,  he  lay 
awaiting  the  return  of  strength.  Upon  the  fringe  of 
hair  beneath  the  brim  of  his  hat  the  sweat  slowly 
dried ;  then,  as  the  dew  gathered  thicker  and  thicker, 
dampened  afresh.  Far  to  the  east,  where  during 
the  day  had  appeared  the  fringe  of  green,  the  sky 
lightened,  almost  brightened;  until  at  last,  like  a 
curious  face,  the  full  moon,  peeping  above  the  hori 
zon,  lit  up  the  surface  of  prairie. 

At  last — and  ere  this  the  moon  was  well  in  the  sky 
• — the  man  arose,  stretched  his  stiffened  muscles  pro 
fanely — before  he  had  not  spoken  a  syllable — listened 
a  moment  almost  involuntarily,  sent  a  swift,  searching 
glance  all  about;  then  moved  ahead,  straight  south, 
at  the  old  relentless  pace. 

•  •  «  •  • 

The  lone  ambassador  from  the  tiny  settlement  of 
Sioux  Falls  vacillated  between  vexation  and  solicitude. 

"  For  the  last  time  I  tell  you;  we're  going  whether 
you  do  or  not,"  he  announced  in  ultimatum. 

Samuel  Rowland,  large,  double-chinned,  distinctly 
florid,  folded  his  arms  across  his  chest  with  an  air 
of  finality. 


4  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

"  And  I  repeat,  I'm  not  going.  I'm  much  obliged 
to  you  for  the  warning.  I  know  your  intentions  are 
good,  but  you  people  are  afraid  of  your  own  shadows. 
I  know  as  well  as  you  do  that  there  are  Indians  in  this 
part  of  the  world,  some  odd  thousands  of  them  be 
tween  here  and  the  Hills,  but  they  were  here  when  I 
came  and  when  you  came,  and  we  knew  they  were 
here.  You  expect  to  hear  from  a  Dane  when  you 
buy  tickets  to  'Hamlet,'  don't  you?" 

The  other  made  a  motion  of  annoyance. 

"  If  you  imagine  this  is  a  time  for  juggling 
similes,"  he  returned  swiftly,  "  you're  making  the 
mistake  of  your  life.  If  you  were  alone,  Rowland, 
I'd  leave  you  here  to  take  your  medicine  without 
another  word;  but  I've  a  wife,  too,  and  I  thank  the 
Lord  she's  down  in  Sioux  City  where  Mrs.  Rowland 
and  the  kid  should  be,  and  for  her  sake " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon." 

The  visitor  started  swiftly  to  leave,  then  as  sud 
denly  turned  back. 

"  Good  God,  man!  "  he  blazed;  "  are  you  plumb 
daft  to  stickle  for  little  niceties  now?  I  tell  you  I 
just  helped  to  pick  up  Judge  Amidon  and  his  son, 
murdered  in  their  own  hayfield  not  three  miles  from 
here,  the  boy  as  full  of  arrows  as  a  cushion  of  pins. 
This  isn't  ancient  history,  man,  but  took  place  this 
very  day.  It's  Indian  massacre,  and  at  our  own 
throats.  The  boys  are  down  below  the  falls  getting 
ready  to  go  right  now.  By  night  there  won't  be 
another  white  man  or  woman  within  twenty-five  miles 


Presentiment  5 

of  you.  It's  deliberate  suicide  to  stand  here  arguing. 
If  you  will  stay  yourself,  at  least  send  away  Mrs. 
Rowland  and  the  girl.  I'll  take  care  of  them  my 
self  and  bring  them  back  when  the  government  sends 
some  soldiers  here,  as  it's  bound  to  do  soon.  Listen 
to  reason,  man.  Your  claim  won't  run  away;  and 
if  someone  should  jump  it  there's  another  just  as  good 
alongside.  Pack  up  and  come  on." 

Of  a  sudden,  rough  pioneer  as  he  was,  his  hat  came 
off  and  the  tone  of  vexation  left  his  voice.  Another 
actor,  a  woman,  had  appeared  upon  the  scene. 

"  You  know  what  I'm  talking  about,  Mrs.  Row 
land,"  he  digressed.  "  Take  my  advice  and  come 
along.  I'll  never  forgive  myself  if  we  leave  you 
behind." 

"You  really  think  there's  danger,  Mr.  Brown?" 
she  asked  unemotionally. 

"  Danger!  "  In  pure  impotence  of  language  the 
other  stared.  "  Danger,  with  Heaven  knows  how 
many  hostile  Sioux  on  the  trail !  Is  it  possible  you 
two  don't  realise  things  as  they  are?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  we  realise  all  right,"  tolerantly.  "  I 
know  the  Tetons  are  hostile;  they  couldn't  well  be 
otherwise.  Any  of  us  would  rebel  if  we  were  hustled 
away  into  a  corner  like  naughty  little  boys,  as  they  are ; 
but  actual  danger "  The  woman  threw  a  compre 
hensive,  almost  amused  glance  at  the  big  man,  her 
husband.  "  We've  been  here  almost  two  years  now; 
long  before  you  and  the  others  came.  Half  the 
hunters  who  pass  this  way  stop  here.  It  wasn't  a 


6  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

month  ago  that  a  party  of  Yanktons  left  a  whole 
antelope.     You  ought  to  see  Baby  Bess  shake  hands 
with    some    of    those    wrinkled    old    bucks.      Dan 
ger!     We're  safer  here  than  we  would  be  in  Sioux, 
City." 

"  But  there's  been  massacre  already,  I  tell  you," 
exploded  the  other.  "  I  don't  merely  surmise  it.  I 
saw  it  with  my  own  eyes." 

"  There  must  have  been  some  personal  reason 
then."  Mrs.  Rowland  glanced  at  the  restless,  excited 
speaker  analytically,  almost  superciliously.  "  In 
dians  are  like  white  people.  They  have  their  loves 
and  hates  the  same  as  all  the  rest  of  us.  Sam  and  I 
ran  once  before  when  everyone  was  going,  and  when 
we  got  back  not  a  thing  had  been  touched;  but  the 
weeds  had  choked  our  corn  and  the  rabbits  eaten  up 
our  garden.  We've  been  good  to  the  Indians,  and 
they  appreciate  it." 

A  moment  Brown  hesitated  impotently;  then  of  a 
sudden  he  came  forward  swiftly  and  extended  his 
hand,  first  to  one  and  then  to  the  other. 

"  Good-bye,  then,"  he  halted.  "  I  can't  take  you 
by  force,  and  it's  pure  madness  to  stay  here  longer." 
Baby  Elizabeth,  a  big-eyed,  solemn-faced  mite  of 
humanity,  had  come  up  now  and  stood  staring  the 
stranger  silently  from  the  side  of  her  mother's  skirts. 
"  I  hope  for  the  best,  but  before  God  I  never  expect 
to  see  any  of  you  again." 

"  Oh,  we'll  see  you  in  the  fall  all  right — when  you 
return,"  commented  Rowland  easily;  but  the  other 


Presentiment  y 

made  no  reply,  and  without  a  backward  glance  started 
at  a  rapid  jog  trot  for  the  tiny  settlement  on  the 
river  two  miles  away. 

Behind  him,  impassive-faced  Rowland  stood  watch 
ing  the  departing  frontiersman  steadily,  the  pouches 
beneath  his  eyes  accentuated  by  the  tightened  lids. 

"  I  don't  believe  there's  a  bit  more  danger  here  now 
than  there  ever  was,"  he  commented;  "  but  there's 
certainly  an  unusual  disturbance  somewhere.  I  don't 
take  any  stock  in  the  people  down  at  the  settlement 
leaving — they'd  go  if  they  heard  a  coyote  whistle; 
but  Brown  tells  me  there've  been  three  different  trap 
pers  from  Big  Stone  gone  through  south  in  the  last 
week,  and  when  they  leave  it  means  something.  If 
you  say  the  word  we'll  leave  everything  and  go  yet." 

"  If  we  do  we'll  never  come  back." 

"  Not  necessarily." 

"  Yes.  I'm  either  afraid  of  these  red  people  or 
else  I'm  not.  We  went  before  because  the  others 
went.  If  we  left  now  it  would  be  different.  We'd 
be  tortured  day  and  night  if  we  really  feared — what 
happens  now  and  then  to  some.  We  came  here  with 
our  eyes  wide  open.  We  can't  start  again  in  civilisa 
tion.  We're  too  old,  and  there's  the  past " 

"You  still  blame  me?" 

"No;  but  we've  chosen.  Whatever  comes,  we'll 
stay."  She  turned  toward  the  rough  log  shanty 
unemotionally. 

"  Come,  let's  forget  it.  Dinner's  waiting  and 
baby's  hungry." 


8  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

A  moment  Rowland  hesitated,  then  he,  too,  fol 
lowed. 

"  Yes,  let's  forget  it,"  he  echoed  slowly. 

•  •  • 

"  Well,  in  Heaven's  name!  "  Rowland's  great  bulk 
was  upon  its  feet,  one  hand  upon  the  ever-ready^ 
revolver  at  his  hip,  the  dishes  on  the  rough  pine  din 
ing  table  clattering  with  the  suddenness  of  his  with 
drawal.  "Who  are  you,  man,  and  what's  the 
trouble?  Speak  up " 

The  dishevelled  intruder  within  the  narrow  door 
way  glanced  about  the  interior  of  the  single  room 
with  bloodshot  eyes. 

His  great  mouth  was  a  bit  open  and  his  swollen 
tongue  all  but  protruded. 

"Water!"  The  word  was  scarce  above  a 
whisper. 

"  But  who  are  you?  " 

"Water!  "  fiercely,  insistently. 

Of  a  sudden  he  spied  a  wooden  pail  upon  a  shelf 
in  the  corner,  and  without  invitation,  almost  as  a  wild 
beast  springs,  he  made  for  it,  grasped  the  big  tin 
dipper  in  both  hands;  drank  measure  after  measure, 
the  overflow  trickling  down  his  bare  throat  and 
dripping  onto  the  sanded  floor, 

"  God,  that's  good!  "  he  voiced.  "  Good,  good!  " 

After  that  first  involuntary  movement  Rowland  did 
not  stir;  but  at  his  side  the  woman  had  risen,  and 
behind  her,  peering  around  the  fortress  of  her  skirts 
as  when  before  she  had  argued  with  Frontiersman 


Presentiment  9 

Brown,  stood  the  little  wide-eyed  girl,  type  of  the  re 
pressed  frontier  child. 

Back  to  them  came  the  stranger,  his  great  jowl 
working  unconsciously. 

"  You  are  Sam  Rowland?  "  he  enunciated  thickly, 

"  Yes." 

"  The  settlement  hasn't  broken  up  then?  " 

"Why  do  you  ask?  " 

"  Is  is  possible  that  you  don't  know,  that  they  don't 
know?  "  Involuntarily  he  seized  his  host  by  the  arm. 
"  I've  heard  of  you ;  you  live  two  miles  out.  We've 
no  time  to  lose.  Come,  don't  stop  to  save  anything." 

Rowland  straightened.  The  other  smelled  evilly 
of  perspiration. 

"  Come  where  ?  Who  are  you  anyway,  and  what's 
the  matter?  Talk  so  I  can  understand  you." 

'  You  don't  know  that  the  Santees  are  on  the  '  big 
trail '  ?  of  the  massacre  along  the  Minnesota  River?  " 

"  I  know  nothing.     Once  more,  who  are  you  ?  " 

"  Who  am  I?  What  does  it  matter?  My  name 
is  Hans  Mueller.  I'm  a  trapper."  Of  a  sudden  he 
drew  back,  inspecting  his  impassive  questioner  doubt 
fully,  almost  unbelievingly.  "  But  come.  I'll  tell 
you  along  the  way.  You  mustn't  be  here  an  hour 
longer.  I  saw  their  signal  smokes  this  very  morning. 
They're  murdering  everyone — men,  women,  and 
children.  It's  Little  Crow  who  started  it,  and  God 
knows  how  many  settlers  they've  killed.  They 
chased  me  for  hours,  but  I  had  a  good  horse.  It 
only  gave  out  yesterday;  and  since  then •  But 


io  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

come.     It's  suicide  to  chatter  like  this."     He  turned 
insistently  toward  the  door.     "  They  may  be  here  any 


minute.'7 


Rowland  and  his  wife  looked  at  each  other. 
Neither  spoke  a  word;  but  at  last  the  woman  shook 
her  head  slowly. 

Hans  Mueller  shifted  restlessly. 

"  Hurry,  I  tell  you,"  he  insisted. 

Rowland  sat  down  again  deliberately,  his  heavy 
double  chin  folding  over  his  soft  flannel  shirt. 

"Where  are  you  going?  "  he  temporised  with  al 
most  a  shade  of  amusement. 

"Going!"  In  his  unbelief  the  German's  pro 
truding  eyes  seemed  almost  to  roll  from  his  face. 
"  To  the  settlement,  of  course." 

"  There  is  no  settlement." 

"What?" 

Rowland  repeated  his  statement  impassively. 

"  They've — gone?  "  The  tongue  had  grown  sud 
denly  thick  again. 

"I  said  so."  The  look  of  pity  had  altered,  be 
come  almost  of  scorn. 

For  a  half  minute  there  was  silence,  inactivity, 
while  despite  tan  and  dirt  and  perspiration  the  cheeks 
of  Hans  Mueller  whitened.  The  same  expression  of 
terror,  hopeless,  dominant,  all  but  insane,  that  had 
been  with  him  alone  out  on  the  prairie  returned,  aug 
mented.  Heedless  of  appearances,  all  but  uncon 
scious  of  the  presence  of  spectators,  he  glanced  about 
the  single  room  like  a  beaten  rabbit  with  the 


Presentiment  II 

hounds  close  on  its  trail.  No  avenue  of  hiding  sug 
gested  kself,  no  possible  hope  of  protection.  The 
cold  perspiration  broke  out  afresh  on  his  forehead,  at 
the  roots  of  his  hair,  and  in  absent  impotency  he 
mopped  it  away  with  the  back  of  a  fat,  grimy  hand. 

In  pity  motherly  Mrs.  Rowland  returned  to  her 
seat,  indicated  another  vacant  beside  the  board. 

"  You'd  best  sit  down  and  eat  a  bit,"  she  i*ivited. 
"  You  must  be  hungry  as  a  coyote." 

"Eat,  now?'7  Swiftly,  almost  fiercely,  the  old 
terror-restless  mood  returned.  "  God  Almighty 
couldn't  keep  me  here  longer."  He  started  shuffling 
for  the  door.  "  Stay  here  and  be  scalped,  if  you 
think  I  lie.  We're  corpses,  all  of  us,  but  I'll  not  be 
caught  like  a  beaver  in  a  trap."  Again  he  halted 
jerkily.  "  Which  way  did  they  go!  " 

Lower  and  lower  sank  Rowland's  great  chin  onto 
his  breast. 

"  They  separated,"  impassively.  "  Part  went 
south  to  Sioux  City;  part  west  toward  Yankton." 
Involuntarily  his  lips  pursed  in  the  inevitable  con 
tempt  of  a  strong  man  for  one  hopelessly  weak. 
'  You'd  better  take  a  lunch  along.  It's  something  of 
i  journey  to  either  place." 

Swift  as  the  suggestion,  Mrs.  Rowland,  with  the 
spontaneous  hospitality  of  the  frontier,  was  upon  her 
feet.  Into  a  quaint  Indian  basket  of  coloured  rushes 
went  a  roast  grouse,  barely  touched,  from  the 
table.  A  loaf  of  bread  followed:  a  bottle  of  water 
from  the  wooden  pail  in  the  corner. 


12  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

"  You're  welcome,  friend,"  she  proffered. 

Hans  Mueller  hesitated,  accepted.  A  swift  mois 
ture  dimmed  his  eyes. 

"  Thanks,  lady,"  he  halted.  "  You're  good  peo 
ple,  anyway.  I'm  sorry "  He  lifted  his  bat 
tered  hat,  shuffled  anew  toward  the  doorway. 
"  Good-bye." 

Impassive  as  before,  Rowland  returned  to  his 
neglected  dinner. 

"  No  wonder  the  Sioux  play  us  whites  for  cowards, 
and  think  we'll  run  at  sight  of  them,"  he  com 
mented. 

Mrs.  Rowland,  standing  motionless  in  the  single 
^it  through  which  Mueller  had  gone,  did  not 
answer. 

"  Better  come  and  finish,  Margaret,"  suggested  her 
husband. 

Again  there  was  no  answer,  and  Rowland,  after 
eating  a  few  mouthfuls,  pushed  back  his  chair.  Even 
then  she  did  not  speak,  and,  rising,  the  man  made 
his  way  across  the  room  to  put  an  arm  with  rough 
affection  around  his  wife's  waist. 

"  Are  you,  too,  scared  at  last?  "  he  voiced  gently. 

The  woman  turned  swiftly  and,  in  action  almost 
unbelievable  after  her  former  unemotional  certainty, 
dropped  her  head  to  his  shoulder. 

'  Yes,  I  think  I  am  a  bit,  Sam.  For  baby's  sake 
I  wish  we'd  gone  too;  but  now," — her  arms  crept 
around  his  neck,  closed, — "  but  now — now  it's  too 
late!" 


Presentiment  lj. 

For  a  long  minute,  and  another,  the  man  did  not 
stir,  but  involuntarily  his  arms  had  tightened  until, 
had  she  wished,  the  woman  could  not  have  turned. 
He  had  been  looking  absently  out  the  door,  south  over 
the  rolling  country  leading  to  the  deserted  settlement 
In  the  distance,  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away, 
Hans  Mueller  was  still  in  sight,  skirting  the  base  of  a 
sharp  incline.  Through  the  trembling  heat  waves  he 
seemed  a  mere  moving  dark  spot;  like  an  ant  or  a 
spider  on  its  zigzag  journey.  The  grass  at  the  base 
of  the  rise  was  rank  and  heavy,  reaching  almost  to  the 
waist  of  the  moving  figure.  Rowland  watched  it  all 
absently,  meditatively;  as  he  would  have  watched  the 
movement  of  a  coyote  or  a  prairie  owl,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  it  was  the  only  visible  object  endowed 
with  life,  and  instinctively  life  responds  to  life.  The 
words  of  his  wife  just  spoken,  "  It  is  too  late,"  with 
the  revelation  they  bore,  were  echoing  in  his  brain. 
For  the  first  time,  to  his  mind  came  a  vague  un 
formed  suggestion,  not  of  fear,  but  near  akin,  as  to 
this  lonely  prairie  wilderness,  and  the  red  man  its 
child.  In  a  hazy  way  came  the  question  whether 
after  all  it  were  not  foolhardy  to  remain  here  now,  to 
dare  that  invisible,  intangible  something  before  which, 
almost  in  panic,  the  others  had  fled.  To  be  sure,  prec 
edent  was  with  him,  logic;  but — of  a  sudden — but  a 
minute  had  passed — his  arms  tightened ;  involuntarily 
he  held  his  breath.  Hans  Mueller  had  been  moving 
on  and  on;  another  half  minute  and  he  would  have 
been  behind  the  base  of  the  hill  out  of  sight;  when, 


14  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

as  from  the  turf  at  one's  feet  there  springs  *-wing  a 
covey  of  prairie  grouse,  from  the  tall  grass  about  the 
retreating  figure  there  leaped  forth  a  swarm  of  other 
similar  dark  figures:  a  dozen,  a  score — in  front,  be 
hind,  all  about.  Apparently  from  mother  earth  her 
self  they  had  come,  autochthonous.  Almost  unbe 
lieving,  the  spectator  blinked  his  eyes;  then,  as  came 
swift  understanding,  instinctively  he  shielded  the 
woman  in  his  arms  from  the  sight,  from  the  knowl 
edge.  Not  a  sound  came  to  his  ears  from  over  the 
prairie :  not  a  single  call  for  help.  That  black  swarm 
simply  arose,  there  was  a  brief,  sharp  struggle,  almost 
fantastic  through  the  curling  heat  waves;  then  one 
and  all,  the  original  dark  figure,  the  score  of  others, 
disappeared — as  suddenly  as  though  the  earth  from 
which  they  came  had  swallowed  them  up.  Look  as 
he  might,  the  spectator  could  catch  no  glimpse  of  a 
moving  object,  except  the  green-brown  grass  carpet 
glistening  under  the  afternoon  sun. 

Yet  a  moment  longer  the  man  stood  so;  then,  his 
own  face  as  pale  as  had  been  that  of  coward  Hans 
Mueller,  he  leaned  against  the  lintel  of  the  door, 

"  Yes,  we're  too  late  now,  Margaret,"  he  echo  sd 


Chapter  II 

FULFILMENT 

THE  log  cabin  of  Settler  Rowland,  as  a  landmark, 
stood  forth.  Barred  it  was — the  white  of  barked  cot 
ton-wood  timber  alternating  with  the  brown  of  earth' 
that  filled  the  spaces  between — like  the  longitudinal 
stripes  of  a  prairie  gopher  or  on  the  back  of  a  bob- 
white.  Long  wiry  slough  grass,  razor-sharp  as  to 
blades,  pungent  under  rain,  weighted  by  squares 
of  tough,  native  sod,  thatched  the  roof.  Sole  ex 
ample  of  the  handiwork  of  man,  it  crowned  one 
of  the  innumerable  rises,  too  low  to  be  dignified 
by  the  name  of  hill,  that  stretched  from  sky  to 
sky  like  the  miniature  waves  on  the  surface  of  a 
shallow  lake.  Back  of  it,  stretching  northward,  a 
vivid  green  blot,  lay  a  field  of  sod  corn :  the  ears  al 
ready  formed,  the  ground  whitened  from  the  lavishly 
scattered  pollen  of  the  frayed  tassels.  In  the  door- 
yard  itself  was  a  dug  well  with  a  mound  of  weed- 
covered  clay  by  its  side  and  a  bucket  hanging  from  a 
pulley  over  its  mouth.  It  was  deep,  for  on  this  up 
land  water  was  far  beneath  the  surface,  and  midway 
of  its  depth,  a  frontier  refrigerator  reached  by  a  rope 
ladder,  was  a  narrow  chamber  in  which  Margaret 
Rowland  kept  her  meats  fresh,  often  for  a  week  at  a 
time.  For  another  purpose  as  well  it  was  used:  a 

15 


i6  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

big  basket  with  a  patchwork  quilt  and  a  pillow  mark 
ing  the  spot  where  Baby  Rowland,  with  the  summer 
heat  all  about,  slept  away  the  long,  sultry  after 
noons. 

Otherwise  not  an  excrescence  marred  the  face  of 
nature.  The  single  horse  Rowland  owned,  useless 
now  while  his  crop  matured,  was  breaking  sod  far  to 
the  west  on  the  bank  of  the  Jim  River.  Not  a  live 
thing  other  than  human  moved  about  the  place. 
With  them  into  this  land  of  silence  had  come  a  mon 
grel  collie.  For  a  solitary  month  he  had  stood  guard; 
then  one  night,  somewhere  in  the  distance,  in  the 
east  where  flowed  the  Big  Sioux,  had  sounded  the 
long-drawn-out  cry  of  a  timber  wolf,  alternately 
nearer  and  more  remote,  again  and  again.  With  the 
coming  of  morning  the  collie  was  gone.  Whether 
dead  or  answering  the  call  of  the  wild  they  never 
knew,  nor  ever  filled  his  place. 

Lonely,  isolated  as  the  place  itself,  was  Sam  Row 
land  that  afternoon  of  late  August.  Silent  as  a 
mute  was  he  as  to  what  he  had  seen ;  elaborately  care 
ful  likewise  to  carry  out  the  family  programme  as 
usual. 

"  Sleepy,  kid?  "  he  queried  when  dinner  was  over. 

Baby  Bess,  taciturn,  sun-browned  autocrat,  nodded 
silent  corroboration. 

"  Come,  then,"  and,  willing  horse,  the  big  man  got 
clumsily  to  all  fours  and,  prancing  ponderously,  drew 
up  at  her  side. 

"  Hang  tight,"  he  admonished  and,  his  wife  smil- 


Fulfilment  17 

ing  from  the  doorway  as  only  a  mother  can  smile, 
ambled  away  through  the  sun  and  the  dust;  climbed 
slowly,  the  tiny  brown  arms  clasped  tightly  about  his 
neck,  down  the  ladder  to  the  retreat,  adjusted  the 
pillow  and  the  patchwork  quilt  with  a  deftness  born 
of  experience. 

"  Go  to  sleepy,  kid,"  he  directed. 

"  Sing  me  to  sleep,  daddy,"  commanded  the  auto 
crat. 

"Sing!     I  can't  sing,  kid." 

"  Yes,  you  can.     Sing  '  Nellie  Gray/  " 

"  Too  hot,  girlie.  My  breath's  all  gone.  Go  to 
sleep." 

"Please,  papa;  pretty  please!" 

The  man  succumbed,  as  he  knew  from  the  first  he 
would  do,  braced  himself  in  the  aperture,  and  sang  the 
one  verse  that  he  knew  of  the  song  again  and  again — 
his  voice  rough  and  unmusical  as  that  of  a  crow,  echo 
ing  and  re-echoing  in  the  narrow  space — bent  over  at 
last,  touched  his  bearded  lips  softly  to  the  winsome, 
motionless  brown  face,  climbed,  an  irresistible  catch 
in  his  breath,  silently  to  the  surface,  sent  one  swift 
glance  sweeping  the  bare  earth  around  him,  and  re 
turned  to  the  cabin. 

Very  carefully  that  sultry  afternoon  he  cleaned  his 
old  hammer  shotgun,  and,  loading  both  barrels  with 
buckshot,  set  it  handy  beside  the  door. 

"Antelope,"  he  explained  laconically;  but  when 
likewise  he  overhauled  the  revolver  hanging  at  his 
hip,  Margaret  was  not  deceived.  This  done,  not- 


1 8  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

withstanding  the  fact  that  the  sun  still  beat  scorch- 
ingly  hot  thereon,  he  returned  to  the  doorstep,  lit  his 
pipe,  drew  his  weather-stained  sombrero  low  over  his 
face,  through  half-closed  eyes  inspected  the  lower 
lands  all  about,  impassively  silent  awaited  the  coming 
of  the  inevitable.  Of  a  sudden  there  was  a  touch  on 
his  shoulder,  and,  involuntarily  starting,  he  looked  up, 
into  the  face  of  Margaret  Rowland. 

The  woman  sat  down  beside  him,  her  hand  on  his 
knee. 

"  Don't  keep  it  from  me,"  she  requested  steadily. 
"  You've  seen  something." 

In  the  brier  bowl  before  his  face  the  tobacco 
glowed  more  brightly  as  Rowland  drew  hard. 

"  Tell  me,  please,"  repeated  Margaret.  "  Are 
they  here?" 

The  pipe  left  the  man's  mouth.  The  great  bushy 
head  nodded  reluctant  corroboration. 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

"You— saw  them?" 

Again  the  man's  head  spoke  an  affirmative.  "  It's 
perhaps  as  well,  after  all,  for  you  to  know."  One 
hand  indicated  the  foot  of  the  rise  before  them, 
"  They  waylaid  Mueller  there." 

"  And  you " 

"  It  was  all  over  in  a  second."  Puff,  puff. 
'"After  all  he Margaret!" 

"  Don't  mind  me.  I  was  thinking  of  baby.  The 
hideous  suggestion !  " 

"  Margaret  1"     He  held  her  tight,  so  tight  he 


Fulfilment  19 

could  feel  the  quiver  of  her  body  against  his,  the  in 
voluntary  catch  of  her  breath.  "  Forgive  me,  Mar 
garet." 

"  You're  not  to  blame.  Perhaps Oh,  Sam, 

Sam,  our  baby !  " 

Hotter  and  hotter  beat  down  the  sun.  Thicker 
and  thicker  above  the  scorching  earth  vibrated  the 
curling  heat  waves.  The  very  breath  of  prairie 
seemed  dormant,  stifled.  Not  the  leaf  of  a  sunflower 
stirred,  or  a  blade  of  grass.  In  the  tiny  patch  of 
Indian  corn  each  individual  plant  drooped,  almost  like 
a  sensate  thing,  beneath  the  rays,  each  broad  leaf 
contracted,  like  a  roll  of  parchment,  tight  upon  the 
parent  stalk.  In  sympathy  the  colour  scheme  of  the 
whole  lightened  from  the  appearance  of  the  paler 
green  under-surface.  Though  silently,  yet  as  plainly 
as  had  done  Hans  Mueller  when  fighting  for  life, 
they  lifted  the  single  plea:  "Water!  Water!  Give 
us  drink!" 

Silent  now,  the  storm  over,  side  by  side  sat  the 
man  and  the  woman;  like  children  awed  by  the  sud 
den  realisation  of  their  helplessness,  their  hands 
clasped  in  mute  sympathy,  mute  understanding. 
Usually  at  this  time  of  day  with  nothing  to  do  they 
slept;  but  neither  thought  of  sleep  now.  As  passed 
the  slow  time  and  the  sun  sank  lower  and  lower,  came 
the  hour  of  supper;  but  likewise  hunger  passed  them 
by.  Something  very  like  fascination  held  them  there 
on  the  doorstep,  gazing  out,  out  at  motionless  im 
passive  nature,  at  the  seemingly  innocent  earth  that 


2O  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

nevertheless  concealed  so  certain  a  menace,  at  the 
patch  of  sod  corn  again  in  cycle  growing  darker  as 
the  broad  leaves  unfolded  in  preparation  for  the  dew 
of  evening.  Out,  out  they  looked,  out,  out 

"Sam!" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  saw,  too?" 

An  answering  pressure  of  the  hand. 

"  The  eyes  of  him,  only  the  eyes — out  there  at  the 
edge  of  the  corn !  " 

"  It's  the  third  time,  Margaret."  Despite  the 
man's  effort  his  breath  tightened.  "  They're  all 
about:  a  score  at  least — I  don't  know  how  many. 
The  tall  grass  there  to  the  east  is  alive " 

"  Sam !  They're  there  again — the  eyes !  Oh,  I'm 
afraid — Sam — baby!  " 

"Hush!  Leave  her  where  she  is.  Don't  seem 
afraid.  It's  our  only  chance.  Let  them  make  the  first 
move."  Again  the  hand  pressure  so  tight  that,  al 
though  she  made  no  sound,  the  blood  left  the  woman's 
fingers.  "  Tell  me  you  forgive  me,  Margaret;  before 
anything  happens.  I'm  a  criminal  to  have  stayed 
here, — I  see  it  now,  a  criminal !  " 

"Don't!" 

"  But  I  must.  Tell  me  you  forgive  me.  Tell 
me." 

"  I  love  you,  Sam." 

Again  in  the  expanse  of  grass  to  the  east  there  was 
motion;  not  in  a  single  spot  but  in  a  dozen  places. 
No  living  being  was  visible,  not  a  sound  broke  the 


Fulfilment  21 

stillness  of  evening;  simply  here  and  there  it  stirred, 
and  became  motionless,  and  stirred  again. 

"  And — Margaret.  If  worst  comes  to  worst  they 

mustn't  take  either  of  us  alive.  The  last  one I 

can't  say  it.  You  understand." 

'"  Yes,  I  understand.  The  last  load But 

maybe " 

"  It's  useless  to  deceive  ourselves.  They  wouldn't 

come  this  way  if Margaret,  in  God's 

name " 

"  But  baby,  Sam!  "  Of  a  sudden  she  was  strug 
gling  fiercely  beneath  the  grip  that  kept  her  back. 
"I  must  have  her,  must  see  her  again;  must, 
must " 

"Margaret!" 

"I  must,  I  say!" 

"  You  must  not  They'll  never  find  her  there. 
She's  safe  unless  we  show  the  way.  Think — as  you 
love  her." 

"  But  if  anything  should  happen  to  us 

She'll  starve!" 

"  No.  There  are  soldiers  at  Yankton,  and  they'll 
come — now;  and  Landor  knows." 

"Oh,  Sam,  Sam!" 

There  was  silence.  No  human  being  could  give 
answer  to  that  mother  wail. 

Again  time  passed;  seconds  that  seemed  minutes, 
minutes  that  were  a  hell  of  suspense.  Below  the 
horizon  of  prairie  the  sun  sank  from  sight.  In  the 
hot  air  a  bank  of  cumulus  clouds  glowed  red  as  from 


22  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

a  distant  conflagration.  For  an  eternity  previous  it 
seemed  to  the  silent  watchers  there  had  been  no  move ; 
now  again  at  last  the  grass  stirred;  a  corn  plant  rustled 
where  there  was  no  breeze;  out  into  the  small  open 
plat  surrounding  the  house  sprang  a  frightened  rabbit, 
scurried  across  the  clearing,  headed  for  the  protecting 
grass,  halted  at  the  edge  irresolute — scurried  back 
again  at  something  it  saw. 

"  You  had  best  go  in,  Margaret."  The  man's 
voice  was  strained,  unnatural.  "  They'll  come  very 
soon  now.  It's  almost  dark." 

"And  you?"  Wonder  of  wonders,  it  was  the 
woman's  natural  tone! 

"  I'll  stay  here.  I  can  at  least  show  them  how  a 
white  man  dies." 

"  Sam  Rowland — my  husband !  " 

"  Margaret — my  wife !  "  Regardless  of  watchful 
savage  eyes,  regardless  of  everything,  the  man  sprang 
to  his  feet.  "  Oh,  how  can  you  forgive  me,  can  God 
forgive  me !  "  Tight  in  his  arms  he  kissed  her  again 
and  again;  passionately,  in  abandon.  "I've  always 
loved  you,  Margaret;  always,  always!" 

"  And  I  you,  man;  and  I  you !  " 

It  came.  As  from  the  darkness  above  drops  the 
horned  owl  on  the  field  mouse,  as  meet  the  tiger  and 
the  deer  at  the  water  hole,  so  it  came.  Upon  the  si 
lence  of  night  sounded  the  hoarse  call  of  a  catbird 
where  no  bird  was,  and  again,  and  again.  In  front 
of  the  maize  patch,  always  in  front,  a  dark  form,  a 


Fulfilment  23 

mere  shadow  in  the  dusk  of  evening,  stood  out  clear 
against  the  light  of  sky.  To  right  and  left  appeared 
others,  as  motionless  as  boulders,  or  as  giant  cacti  on 
the  desert.  Had  Settler  Rowland  been  other  than  the 
exotic  he  was,  he  would  have  understood.  No  In 
dian  exposes  himself  save  for  a  purpose;  but  he  did 
not  understand.  Erect  now,  his  finger  on  the  trigger 
of  the  old  smoothbore,  he  waited  passive  before  the 
darkened  doorway  of  the  cabin,  looking  straight  be 
fore  him,  God  alone  knows  what  thoughts  whirling 
in  his  brain.  Again  in  front  of  him  sounded  and  re 
sounded  the  alien  call.  The  dark  figures  against  the 
sky  took  life,  moved  forward.  Simultaneously,  on 
the  thatch  of  the  cabin  roof,  appeared  two  other 
figures  identical  with  those  in  front.  Foot  by  foot, 
silent  as  death,  they  climbed  up,  reached  the  ridge 
pole,  crossed  to  the  other  side.  On,  on  advanced 
the  figures  in  front.  Down  the  easy  incline  of  the 
roof  came  the  two  in  the  rear,  reached  the  edge, 
paused  waiting.  Of  a  sudden,  out  of  the  maize 
patch,  out  of  the  grass,  seemingly  out  of  space  itself, 
came  a  new  cry — the  trilling  call  of  the  prairie  owl. 
It  was  the  signal.  Like  twin  drops  of  rain  from  a 
cloudless  sky  fell  the  two  figures  on  Rowland's  head; 
ere  he  could  utter  a  sound,  could  offer  resistance, 
bore  him  to  earth.  From  somewhere,  everywhere, 
swarmed  others.  The  very  earth  seemed  to  open  and 
give  them  forth  in  legion.  In  the  multitude  of  hands 
he  was  as  a  child.  Within  the  space  of  seconds,  ere 
waiting  Margaret  realised  that  anything  had  hap- 


24  WHere  th~e  Trail  Divides 

pened,  he  had  disappeared,  all  had  disappeared.  In 
the  clearing  before  the  door  not  a  human  being  was 
visible,  not  a  live  thing;  only  on  the  thatched  roof, 
silent  as  before,  patient  as  fate,  awaited  two  other 
shadows,  darker  but  by  contrast  with  the  weather-; 
coloured  grass. 

Minutes  passed.     Not  even  the  call  of  the  catbird/ 
broke  the  silence.     Within  the  darkness  of  the  cabin 
the  suspense  was  a  thing  of  which  insanity  is  made. 

"  Sam!  "  called  a  voice  softly. 

No  answer. 

"  Sam !  "  repeated  more  loudly. 

Again  no  answer  of  voice  or  of  action. 

In  the  doorway  appeared  a  woman's  figure ;  breath 
less,  blindly  fearful. 

uSam!"  for  the  third  time,  tremulous,  wailing; 
and  she  stepped  outside. 

A  second,  and  it  was  over.  A  second,  and  the 
revel  was  on.  The  earth  was  not  silent  now.  There 
was  no  warning  trill  of  prairie  owl.  As  dropped  the 
figures  from  above  there  broke  forth  the  Sioux  war- 
cry:  long  drawn  out,  demoniac,  indescribable.  Blood 
curdling,  more  savage  infinitely  than  the  cry  of  any 
wild  beast,  the  others  took  it  up,  augmented  it  by  a 
score,  a  hundred  throats.  Again  the  earth  vomited 
the  demons  forth.  Naked,  breech-clouted,  garbed  in 
fragments  of  white  men's  dress,  they  swarmed  into 
the  clearing,  into  the  cabin,  about  the  two  prisoners 
in  their  midst.  Passively,  patiently  waiting  for  hours, 
of  a  sudden  they  seemed  possessed  of  a  frenzy  of 


Fulfilment  25 

haste,  of  savage  abandon,  of  drunken  exhilaration  in 
the  cunning  that  had  won  the  game  without  a  shot 
from  the  white  man's  gun,  without  the  injury  of  a 
single  warrior.  They  were  in  haste,  and  yet  they 
were  not  in  haste.  They  looted  the  cabin  like  fire 
and  then  fought  among  themselves  for  the  plunder. 
They  applied  the  torch  to  the  shanty's  roof  as  though 
pressed  by  the  Great  Spirit;  then  capered  fiendishly 
in  its  illumination,  oblivious  of  time  until,  tinder 
dry,  it  had  burned  level  with  the  earth.  Last  of  all, 
purposely  reserved  as  a  climax,  they  gave  their  atten 
tion  to  the  pair  of  half-naked,  bound  and  gagged 
figures  in  their  midst.  Then  it  was  the  scene  became 
an  orgy  indeed.  The  havoc  preceding  had  but 
whetted  their  appetite  for  the  finale.  Savagery  per 
sonified,  cruelty  unqualified,  deadly  hate,  primitive 
lust — every  black  passion  lurking  in  the  recesses  of 
the  human  mind  stalked  brazenly  into  the  open,  stood 
forth  defiant,  sinister,  unashamed.  But  let  it  pass. 
It  was  but  a  repetition  of  a  thousand  similar  scenes 
enacted  on  the  swiftly  narrowing  frontier,  a  fraction 
of  the  price  civilisation  ever  pays  to  savagery,  in 
evitable  as  a  nation's  expansion,  as  its  progression. 
It  was  eight  of  the  clock  when  came  that  final 
warning  whistle  of  prairie  owl.  It  was  not  yet  ten 
when,  silent  as  they  had  come,  unbelievably  impassive 
when  but  an  hour  before  they  had  been  irresponsible 
madmen,  temporarily  cruelty-surfeited,  they  resumed 
their  journey.  Single  file,  each  footstep  of  those  who 
followed  fair  in  the  print  of  the  leader,  a  long,  long 


26  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

line  of  ghostly,  undulatory  shadows,  forming  the  most 
treacherous  deadly  serpent  that  ever  inhabited  earth, 
they  moved  eastward  until  they  reached  the  bank  of  the 
swift  little  river;  then  turned  north,  leaving  the  aban 
doned,  desolated  settlement,  the  ruined  cornfields,  as 
tokens  of  their  handiwork,  as  a  message  to  other 
predatory  bands  who  might  follow,  as  a  challenge  to 
the  white  man  who  they  knew  would  return.  As  passed 
the  slow  hours  toward  morning  they  moved  swiftly 
and  more  swiftly.  The  gliding  walk  became  a  dog 
trot,  almost  a  lope;  their  arms  swung  back  and  forth 
in  unison,  the  pat,  pat  of  their  moccasined  feet  was 
like  the  steady  drip  of  eaves  from  a  summer  rain,  the 
rustle  of  their  passing  bodies  against  the  dense  vege 
tation  a  soft  accompaniment.  Autochthonous  as 
they  had  appeared  they  disappeared.  Night  and  dis 
tance  swallowed  them  up.  But  for  a  trampled, 
ruined  grainfield,  the  smouldering  ruins  of  what  had 
once  been  a  house,  the  glaring  white  of  two  naked 
bodies  in  the  starlight  against  the  background  of  dark 
earth,  it  was  as  though  they  had  not  come.  But  for 
this,  and  one  other  thing — a  single  sound,  repeated 
again  and  again,  dulled,  muffled  as  though  coming 
from  the  earth  itself. 

"Daddy!  Daddy!  I  want  you."  Then  re 
peated  with  a  throb  in  its  depths  that  spoke  louder 
than  words.  "  Daddy,  come  I  I'm  afraid  I  " 


Chapter  III 

DISCOVERY 

MORE  than  a  mere  name  was  Fort  Yankton.  Orig 
inal  in  construction,  as  necessity  ever  induces  the  un 
usual,  it  was  nevertheless  formidable.  To  the  north 
was  a  typical  entrenchment  with  a  ditch,  and  a  parapet 
eight  feet  high.  To  the  east  was  a  double  board  wall 
with  earth  tamped  between:  a  solid  curb  higher  than 
the  head  of  a  tall  man.  Completing  the  square,  to 
the  south  and  west  stretched  a  chain  of  oak  posts  set 
close  together  and  pierced,  as  were  the  other  walls 
of  the  stockade,  by  numerous  portholes.  Within  the 
enclosure,  ark  of  refuge  for  settlers  near  and  afar, 
was  a  large  blockhouse  wherein  congregated,  mingled 
and  intermingled,  ate,  slept,  and  had  their  being,  as 
diverse  a  gathering  of  humans  as  ever  graced  a  single 
structure  even  in  this  land  of  myriad  types.  Virtu 
ally  the  entire  population  of  frontier  Yankton  was 
there.  Likewise  the  settlers  from  near-by  Bon 
Homme.  An  adventurer  from  the  far-away  country 
of  the  Wahpetons  and  a  trapper  from  the  hunting 
ground  of  the  Sissetons  drifted  in  together,  together 
awaited  the  signal  of  the  peace  pipe  ere  returning  to 
their  own.  Likewise  from  the  wild  west  of  the  great 
river,  from  the  domain  of  the  Uncpapas,  the  Black- 
feet,  the  Minneconjous,  the  Ogallalas,  came  others; 
for  the  alarm  of  rapine  and  of  massacre  had  spread 


28  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

afar.  Very  late  to  arrive,  doggedly  holding  their 
own  until  rumour  became  reality  unmistakable,  was 
the  colony  from  the  Jim  River  valley  to  the  east ;  but 
even  they  had  finally  surrendered,  the  dogging  grip  of 
fear,  that  makes  high  and  low  brothers,  at  their 
throats,  had  fled  precipitately  before  the  conquering 
onslaught  of  the  Santees.  Last  of  all,  boldest  of  all, 
most  foolhardy  of  all,  as  you  please,  came  the  tiny 
delegation  from  the  settlement  of  Sioux  Falls. 
Hungry,  thirsty,  footsore,  all  but  panic-stricken,  for 
with  the  actual  retreat  apprehension  had  augmented 
with  each  slow  mile,  thanking  the  Providence  which 
had  permitted  them  to  arrive  unmolested,  a  sorry- 
looking  band  of  refugees,  they  faced  the  old  smooth 
bore  cannon  before  the  big  south  gate  and  craved 
admittance.  Out  to  them  went  Colonel  William 
Landor,  colonel  by  courtesy,  scion  of  many  genera 
tions  of  Landors,  rancher  at  present,  cattle  king  of 
the  future.  The  conversation  that  followed  there 
with  the  east  reddening  in  the  morning  sun  was  very 
brief,  very  swift  to  the  point. 

"  Who  are  you,  friends?  "  The  shrewd  grey  eyes 
-were  observing  them  collectively,  compellingly. 

"  My  name  is  McPherson." 

"  Mine  is  Horton." 

"  Never  mind  the  names,"  shortly.  "  I  can  learn 
them  later." 

"  We're  homesteaders."  Again  it  was  stubby, 
sandy-whiskered  McPherson  who  took  the  lead. 

"From  where?" 


Discovery  29 

"  Sioux  Falls." 

"Any  news?  " 

Curt  as  the  question  came  the  answer,  the  tale  of 
massacre  now  a  day  old. 

"  And  the  rest  of  your  settlement — where  are 
they?" 

McPherson  told  him. 

"  They  all  went,  you  say?  " 

For  the  first  time  the  Scotchman  hesitated.     "All' 
except  one  family,"  he  qualified. 

"  There  was  but  one  family  there."  Landor  was 
not  observing  the  company  collectively  now.  "  You 
mean  to  tell  me  Sam  Rowland  did  not  go?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That  you — men  here  went  off  and  left  him  and 
his  wife  and  little  girl  alone  at  this  time?"  The 
questioner's  eyelids  were  closing  ominously.  "  You 
come  here  with  that  story  and  ask  me  to  let  you 
inside?" 

McPherson  was  no  coward.  His  short  legs  spread 
belligerently,  his  shoulders  squared. 

"  We're  here,"  he  announced  laconically. 

"  I  observe."  Just  a  shade  closer  came  the 
tightened  eyelids.  "  Moreover,  strange  to  say,  I'm 
glad  to  see  you."  He  leaned  forward  involuntarily; 
his  breath  came  quick.  "  It  gives  me  the  oppor 
tunity,  sir,  to  tell  you  to  your  face  that  you're  a 
damned  coward."  In  spite  of  an  obvious  effort  at 
repression,  the  great  veins  of  the  speaker's  throat 
swelled  visibly,  "  A  damned  coward,  sir!  " 


30  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

"What!     You  call  me " 

"Men!     Gentlemen!" 

"  Don't  worry."  Swift  as  had  come  the  burst  of 
passion,  Landor  was  himself  again;  curt,  all-seeing, 
self-sufficient.  "  There'll  be  no  blood  shed."  Early 
as  it  was,  a  crowd  had  collected  now,  and,  as  he  had 
done  with  the  newcomers,  he  addressed  them  collec 
tively,  authoratively.  "  When  I  fight  it  will  not  be 
with  one  who  abandons  a  woman  and  a  child  at  a  time 
like  this.  .  .  .  God!  it  makes  a  man's  blood  boil. 
I've  known  the  Rowlands  for  ten  years,  long  before 
the  kid  came."  Cold  as  before  he  had  been  flaming, 
he  faced  anew  the  travel-stained  group.  "  Out  of 
my  sight,  every  one  of  you,  and  thank  your  coward 
stars  I'm  not  in  command  here.  If  I  were,  not  a 
man  of  you  would  ever  get  inside  this  stockade — not 
if  the  Santees  scalped  you  before  my  eyes." 

For  a  second  there  was  silence,  inaction. 

"  But  Rowland  wouldn't  come,"  protested  a  voice. 
«  We  tried " 

"  Not  a  word.  If  you  were  too  afraid  of  your  skin 
to  bring  them  in,  there  are  others  who  are  not." 
V^ital,  magnetic,  born  leader  of  men,  he  turned  to  the 
waiting  spectators.  "  It  may  be  too  late  now, — I'm 
afraid  it  is;  but  if  Sam  Rowland  is  alive,  I'm  going 
to  bring  him  here.  Who's  with  me?  Who's  will 
ing  to  make  the  ride  back  to  Sioux  Falls?  " 

"Who?"  It  was  another  rancher,  surnamed 
Crosby,  hatchet-faced,  slow  of  speech,  who  spoke. 
"  Ain't  that  question  a  bit  superfluous,  pard?  We're 


Discovery  31 

all  with  you — that  is,  as  many  as  you  want,  I  reckon. 
None  of  us  ain't  cats,  so  we  can't  croak  but  once — and 
that  might  as  well  be  now  as  ten  years  from  now." 

"  All  right."  Hardened  frontiersman-,  Landor 
took  the  grammar  and  the  motive  alike  for  granted. 
44  Get  your  horses  and  report  here.  The  first  twenty 
to  return,  go." 

From  out  the  group  of  newcomers  one  man 
emerged.  It  was  McPherson. 

"  Who'll  lend  me  a  horse?  "  he  queried. 

No  man  gave  answer.  Already  the  group  had 
separated. 

For  a  moment  the  Scotchman  halted,  grim- jawed, 
his  legs  an  inverted  V;  then  silent  as  they,  equally 
swiftly,  he  followed. 

Very  soon,  almost  unbelievably  soon,  they  began  to 
trickle  back.  Not  in  ignorance  of  possibilities  in 
store  did  they  come.  They  had  no  delusions  con 
cerning  the  red  brother,  these  frontiersmen.  Nor  in 
the  hot  adventurous  blood  of  youth  did  they  respond. 
One  and  all  were  middle-aged  men;  many  had  fam 
ilies.  All  save  Landor  were  strangers  to  the  man 
they  went  to  seek.  Yet  at  a  moment's  call  they 
responded;  as  they  took  it  for  granted  others  would 
respond  were  they  in  need.  Had  they  been  conscious 
of  the  fact,  the  action  was  magnificent;  but  of  it  they 
were  not  conscious.  They  but  answered  an  instinct : 
the  eternal  brotherhood  of  the  frontier.  Far  away  in 
his  well-policed,  steam-heated  abode  urban  man  listens 
to  the  tale  of  unselfishness,  and,  supercilious,  smiles. 


32  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

We  believe  what  we  have  ourselves  felt,  we  humans. 
First  of  all  to  come  was  lean-faced  Crosby,  one  cheek 
swelled  round  with  a  giant  quid.  Close  at  his  heels 
followed  Trapper  Conway:  grizzled,  parchment- 
faced  veteran,  who  alone  had  followed  the  Missouri 
to  its  source  and,  stranger  to  relate,  had  alone  re 
turned  with  his  scalp.  Then  came  Landor  himself, 
the  wiry  little  mustang  he  rode  all  but  blanketed  under 
the  big  army  saddle.  Following  him,  impassive,  non 
committal  as  though  an  event  of  the  recent  past  had 
not  occurred,  came  McPherson,  drew  up  in  place  be 
side  the  leader.  All-seeing,  Crosby  spat  apprecia 
tively,  but  Landor  gave  never  a  glance.  Following 
came  not  one  but  many  riders ;  a  half  dozen,  a  score, 
— enough  to  make  up  the  allotment,  and  again.  In 
silence  they  came,  grim-faced,  more  grimly  accoutred. 
All  manner  of  horseflesh  was  represented:  the 
broncho,  the  mustang,  the  frontier  scrub,  the  thor 
oughbred;  all  manner  of  apparel,  from  chaperajos 
to  weather-beaten  denim;  but,  saddled  or  saddleless, 
across  the  neck  of  every  beast  stretched  the  barrel  of 
a  long  rifle,  at  the  hip  of  every  rider  hung  a  holster, 
from  every  belt  peeped  the  hilt  of  a  great  knife. 
"Long  ere  this  word  of  the  unusual  had  passed  about, 
and  now,  on  the  rise  of  ground  at  the  back  of  the 
stockade,  a  goodly  group  had  gathered.  Silent  as  the 
prairies,  as  the  morning  itself,  they  watched  the  scene 
below,  awaited  the  denouement.  Not  without  influ 
ence  was  the  taciturn  example  of  the  red  man  in  this 
land  from  which  he  was  slowly  being  crowded. 


Discovery  33 

From  over  the  uplands  to  the  east  the  red  face  of 
the  morning  sun  was  just  peeping  when  Landor 
separated  himself  from  the  waiting  group,  led  the 
way  to  the  big  gate  and  paused.  "  Twenty  only, 
men,"  he  repeated.  "  All  ready." 

First  through  the  opening  went  Crosby. 

"  One." 

Close  as  before,  at  his  horse's  heels  followed  Con-! 
way. 

"  Two." 

From  out  the  motley,  looking  neither  to  right  nor 
left,  came  Scotchman  McPherson;  but  though  he 
passed  fair  before  the  leader's  eyes  and  not  a  yard 
away,  no  number  was  spoken ;  no  hint  of  recognition, 
of  cognisance,  crossed  the  latter's  face.  Implacable, 
relentless  as  time,  he  awaited  the  next  in  line,  then 
,  voiced  the  one  word:  "  Three." 

On  filed  the  line ;  close  formed  as  convicts,  as  con 
victs  silent — halting  at  a  lifted  hand.  A  moment 
they  paused,  one  and  twenty  men  who  counted  but  as 
a  score,  started  into  motion,  halted  again;  as  by  com 
mon  consent  every  head  save  one  of  a  sudden  going 
bare.  Hitherto  silent  as  they,  the  watching  group 
back  in  the  stockade  had  that  instant  found  voice.  All 
but  to  the  ground  swept  twenty  sombreros  as  out  over 
the  prairies,  out  where  no  human  ear  could  hear, 
rolled  a  cheer,  and  repeated,  and  again;  tribute  of 
Fort  Yankton  to  those  who  went.  At  the  rear  of  the 
column  one  rider  alone  did  not  respond,  apparently 
did  not  hear.  Implacable  as  Landor  himself,  he 


34  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

looked  straight  before  him,  awaited  the  silence  th*£ 
would  bring  with  it  renewed  activity. 

And  it  came.  With  a  single  motion  as  before, 
every  hat  returned  to  its  place,  was  drawn  low  over 
its  owner's  eyes.  From  his  position  by  the  gate  Lan- 
dor  advanced,  took  the  lead.  Behind  him,  impassive 
again  as  figures  in  a  spectacle,  the  others  fell  in  line. 
At  first  a  mere  walk,  the  pace  gradually  quickened, 
became  a  canter,  a  trot.  By  this  time  the  confines 
of  the  tiny  frontier  town  were  passed.  Before  them 
on  the  one  hand,  bordering  on  the  river,  stretched  a 
range  of  low  hills,  dun-brown  from  its  coat  of  sun- 
dried  grass.  On  the  other,  greener  by  contrast,  glit 
tering  now  in  the  level  rays  of  the  early  morning  sun 
on  myriad  dew-drops,  and  seemingly  endless,  unrolled 
the  open  prairie.  Straight  into  this  Landor  led  the 
way,  and  as  he  did  so  the  cavalcade  for  the  first  time 
broke  into  a  gallop ;  not  the  fierce,  short-lived  pace  of 
civilisation,  but  the  long-strided,  full-lunged  lope  of 
the  frontier,  which  accurately  and  as  tirelessly  as  a 
clock  measures  time,  counts  off  the  passing  miles. 
Hitherto  a  preliminary,  at  last  the  play  was  on. 

Sixty-odd  miles  as  migrates  the  sandhill  crane, 
serrated  the  settlements  of  Yankton  and  Sioux  Falls. 
Trackless  as  a  desert  was  the  prairie,  minus  even  the 
buffalo  trails  of  a  quarter  century  before;  yet  with  the 
sun  only  as  guide,  they  forged  ahead,  straight  as  a 
line  drawn  taut  from  point  to  point.  Nothing  stopped 
their  advance,  nothing  made  them  turn  aside.  Seem 
ingly  destitute  of  animal  life,  the  country  fairly 


Discovery  35 

teemed  at  their  approach.  Grouse,  typical  of  the 
prairie  as  the  blue-faced  anemone,  were  everywhere; 
singly,  in  coveys,  in  flocks.  Troops  of  antelope, 
startled  in  their  morning  feeding,  scurried  away  from 
the  path  of  the  invaders ;  curious  as  children,  paused 
on  the  safety  of  the  nearest  rise,  to  watch  the  horsemen 
out  of  sight.  Every  marshy  spot,  every  prairie  pond, 
had  its  setting  of  ducks.  The  teal,  the  mallard,  the 
widgeon,  the  shoveller,  the  canvasback — all  mingled 
in  the  loud-voiced  throng  that  arose  before  the  leader's 
approach,  then,  like  smoke,  vanished  with  almost  un 
believable  swiftness  into  the  hazy  distance.  Prairie 
dog  towns,  populous  as  cities  of  man  a  minute 
before  their  approach,  went  lifeless,  desolate,  as  they 
passed  through.  In  the  infrequent  draws  and  creek 
beds  between  the  low,  rolling  hills,  great-eyed  cotton 
tails  scampered  to  cover  or,  like  the  antelope,  just  out 
of  harm's  way,  watched  the  passage  of  this  strange 
being,  man.  Wonder  of  wonders  that  display  of  life 
would  have  been  to  another  generation;  but  of  it  these 
grim-faced  riders  were  apparently  unconscious,  oblivi 
ous.  Their  eyes  were  not  for  things  near  at  hand, 
but  for  the  distance,  for  the  possibility  that  lurked 
just  beyond  that  far-away  rise  which  formed  their 
horizon,  when  they  had  reached  that  for  the  next 
beyond,  and  the  next. 

Hour  by  hour  the  morning  wore  away.  Hotter 
and  hotter  rose  the  sun  above  them.  Instead  of 
drops  of  dew,  tiny  particles  of  sun-dried  grass  flew 
away  from  beneath  the  leaders'  feet,  mingled  with  the 


36  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

dust  of  prairie,  became  a  cloud  shutting  the  leaders 
from  the  sight  of  those  in  the  rear.  From  being  a 
mere  breath,  the  south  wind  augmented,  became  posi 
tive,  insistent.  Hot  with  the  latent  heat  of  many  days, 
it  sang  in  their  ears  as  they  went,  bit  all  but  scorch 
ing,  at  their  unprotected  hands  and  throats.  Under 
its  touch  the  horses'  necks,  dark  before  with  sweat, 
became  normal  again:  between  their  legs,  under  the 
edges  of  the  great  saddles  where  it  had  churned  into 
foam,  dried  into  white  powder,  like  frostwork  amid 
the  hair.  Gradually  with  the  change,  their  breathing 
became  audible,  louder  and  louder,  until  in  unison  it 
mingled  with  the  dull  impact  of  their  feet  on  the 
heavy  sod  like  the  exhaust  of  many  engines.  No 
horseman  who  values  the  life  of  the  beast  between  his 
legs,  fails  to  heed  that  warning.  Landor  did  not,  but 
at  the  first  dawdling  prairie  creek  that  offered  water 
and,  with  its  struggling  fringe  of  willows,  a  sugges 
tion  of  shade,  he  gave  the  word  to  halt,  and  for  four 
mortal,  blistering  hours  while,  man  and  beast  alike, 
the  others  slept,  kept  watch  over  them  from  the  near 
est  rise.  Relentless  to  others  this  man  might  be,  but 
not  even  his  dearest  enemy  could  accuse  him  of  spar 
ing  himself. 

It  was  three  by  the  clock  when  again  they  took  up 
the  trail.  It  was  3.45  when  they  swam  what  is< 
now  the  Vermilion  River,  the  last  water-course  of  any 
size  on  their  way.  The  dew  was  again  beginning  to 
gather  when,  well  to  the  south,  they  approached  the 
bordering  hills  that  concealed  the  site  of  Sioux  Falls 


Discovery  37 

settlement.  Then  for  the  first  time  since  they  began 
that  last  relay  Landor  gave  an  order. 

"  It'll  be  a  miracle  if  we  don't  find  Sioux  there  in 
jthe  bottom,  men,"  he  prophesied.  "  Perhaps  there 
.are  a  whole  band,  perhaps  it'll  only  be  stragglers;  but 
no  matter  how  many  or  how  few  there  may  be,  charge 
them.  If  they  run  you  know  what  to  do — this  is 
no  holiday  outing.  If  they  stand,  charge  them  all  the 
harder."  He  faced  his  horse  to  the  north  and  gave 
the  word  to  go.  "  It's  our  only  chance,"  he  com 
pleted. 

What  followed  belongs  to  history.  Over  that  last 
intervening  rise  they  went  like  demons.  The  first  to 
gain  the  crown,  to  look  down  into  the  valley  beyond, 
was  Landor.  As  he  did  so,  grim  Anglo-Saxon  as 
he  was,  his  whole  attitude  underwent  a  transforma 
tion.  Back  to  the  others  he  turned  his  face,  and, 
plain  as  on  canvas  thereon  was  portrayed  war, 
carnage,  and  the  lust  of  battle. 

"They're  there;  a  hundred,  if  a  single  red!"  he 
shouted.  "  Come  on !  "  and  the  rowels  of  his  great 
spurs  dug  deep  at  his  horse's  flanks,  dug  until  the 
blood  spurted. 

But  a  few  minutes  it  took  to  make  the  run,  yet  only 
a  fraction  of  the  time  that  mounted  swarm  in  the 
valley  held  their  ground.  Outnumbering  those  who 
charged  many  times,  it  was  not  in  savage  nature  to 
face  that  unformed  oncoming  motley  of  howling, 
bloodthirsty  maniacs.  Slowly  at  first  began  the  re 
treat;  then  as,  with  great  swiftness,  the  others 


38  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

shortened  the  distance  intervening,  it  became  a  con« 
tagion,  a  mania,  a  stampede.  Every  brave  for  him 
self,  stumbling,  crowding  through  the  dismantled 
ruins  of  what  had  the  day  before  been  a  settlement, 
howling  like  their  pursuers,  seeking  but  one  thing, 
escape,  they  headed  for  the  thicket  surrounding  the 
river  bank;  the  whistle  of  bullets  in  their  ears,  cut 
ting  at  the  vegetation  about  them.  Into  its  friendly 
cover  they  plunged,  as  a  fish  disappears  beneath  the 
surface  of  a  lake,  and  were  swallowed  from  sight. 
That  is,  all  but  one.  That  one,  unhorsed  by  accident, 
was  left  to  face  that  oncoming  flood.  .  .  .  But 
why  linger.  Like  the  charge  itself,  his  fate  is  history. 
These  men  were  but  human,  and  thick  about  them 
were  the  ashes  from  the  roof-trees  of  their  friends. 
Summer  night,  dreamy  with  caress  of  softest  south 
wind,  musical  with  the  drone  of  myriad  crickets,  with 
the  boom  of  frogs  from  the  low  land  adjoining  the 
river,  melancholy  with  the  call  of  the  catbird,  with 
the  infrequent  note  of  the  whip-poor-will,  was  upon 
the  land  of  the  Mandans  when  the  score  and  one, 
their  dripping  ponies  once  more  dry,  took  up  the  last 
relay  of  their  journey.  Night  had  caught  them  there 
in  the  deserted  settlement,  and  Landor  had  given  the 
word  to  halt,  to  wait.  Now,  far  to  the  east,  appar-j 
ently  from  the  breast  of  Mother  Earth  herself,  the 
face  of  the  full  harvest  moon,  red  as  frosted  maple 
leaves  through  the  heated  air,  slowly  rising,  lit  up  the 
level  country  softly  as  by  early  twilight.  Linger- 
ingly,  almost  reluctantly,  Landor  got  into  his  saddle. 


Discovery  39 

Just  to  his  left,  impassive  as  the  night,  well  to  the 
front  cf  the  company  as  he  had  been  that  mortal 
dragging  day,  sat  Scotchman  McPherson.  Not  once 
since  that  early  morning  scene  at  Fort  Yankton  had 
he  spoken  a  word,  not  once  had  he  been  addressed, 
had  another  man  shown  consciousness  of  his  presence. 
A  pariah,  he  had  so  far  kept  them  company;  a  pariah, 
he  now  awaited  the  end.  A  moment,  fair  in  his  seat, 
Landor  paused;  then  that  which  the  watchers  had  ex 
pected  for  hours  came  to  pass.  Deliberately  he 
crossed  over,  drew  rein  beside  the  other  man. 

"  McPherson,"  he  said,  "  this  morning  I  called  you 
coward.  That  you  are  not  such  you  have  proven, 
you  are  proving  now.  For  this  reason  I  ask  your 
pardon.  For  this  reason  as  well,  I  give  you  warning. 
What  we  will  find — where  we  are  going,  I  do  not 
doubt,  now.  I  do  not  believe  you  doubt.  For  it  I 
hold  you  responsible.  You  had  best  turn  back  be 
fore  belief  becomes  certainty."  Unnaturally  precise, 
cold  as  November  raindrops  came  the  words,  the 
sentences.  Deadly  in  meaning  was  the  pause  that 
followed.  "  I  repeat,  you  had  best  turn  back." 

For  a  long  half  minute,  face  to  face  there  in  the 
moonlight,  Landor  waited;  but  no  answer  came. 
Just  perceptibly  he  shifted  in  his  place. 

"  I  may  forget,  give  my  promise  of  the  morning 
the  lie.  Do  you  understand?  " 

"  Yes,  I  understand." 

Another  half  minute,  ghastly  in  its  significance, 
passed;  then  without  a  word  Landor  turned.  "  You 


40  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

have  heard,  men,"  he  said,  "  and  may  God  be  my 
judge." 

The  full  moon  was  well  in  the  sky,  showing  clear 
every  detail  in  that  scene  of  desolation,  when  they 
arrived.  Patter,  patter,  patter  sounded  their  hoof 
beats  in  the  distance.  More  and  more  loud  they  grewv 
muffled  yet  penetrating  in  the  silence  of  night,  always 
augmenting  in  volume.  Out  of  the  shadows  figures 
came  dimly  into  view,  taking  form  against  the  back 
ground  of  constellations.  The  straining  of  leather,  the 
music  of  steel  in  bit  and  buckle,  the  soft  swish  of  the 
sun-dried  grass  proclaimed  them  very  near;  then  across 
the  trampled  corn  patch,  into  the  open  where  had  stood 
the  shanty,  where  now  was  a  thin  grey  layer  of  ashes, 
came  the  riders,  and  drew  rein;  their  weary  mounts 
crowding  each  other  in  fear  at  something  they  saw. 
Like  a  storm  cloud  they  came ;  like  the  roll  of  thunder 
following  was  the  oath  which  sprang  to  the  lips  of 
every  rider  save  one.  Good  men  they  were,  God-fear 
ing  men ;  yet  they  swore  like  pirates,  like  humans  when 
ordinary  speech  is  not  adequate.  In  the  pause  but 
one  man  acted,  and  none  intervened  to  prevent  what 
he  did.  Out  into  the  open,  away  from  the  others, 
rode  Scotchman  McPherson;  halted,  his  hand  on  the, 
holster  at  his  hip.  For  a  second,  and  a  second  only^ 
he  sat  so,  the  white  moonlight  drawing  clear  every 
line  of  his  grizzled  face,  his  stocky  figure.  Then  de 
liberately  his  hand  lifted,  before  him  there  appeared 
a  sudden  blaze  of  fire,  upon  the  silence  there  broke  a 
single  revolver  report,  from  beneath  his  lifeless  bulk 


Discovery  41 v 

the  horse  he  rode  broke  free,  gave  one  bound,  by  in 
stinct  halted,  trembling  in  every  muscle;  then  over  all, 
the  quick  and  the  dead,  returned  silence:  silence  ab 
solute  as  that  of  the  grave. 

How  long  those  twenty  men  sat  there,  gazing  at 
'that  mute,  motionless  figure  on  the  ground  not  one 
could  have  told.  Death  was  no  stranger  to  them. 
For  years  it  had  lurked  behind  every  chance  shrub 
they  passed,  in  the  depths  of  every  ravine,  in  the 
darkness  of  night,  from  every  tangle  of  rank  prairie 
grass  in  broad  daylight.  To  it  from  long  familiarity 
they  had  become  callous;  but  death  such  as  this,  de 
liberate,  cold-blooded,  self-inflicted — it  awed  them 
while  it  fascinated,  held  them  silent,  passive. 

"  In  God's  name !  "  Again  it  was  Landor  who 
roused  them,  Landor  with  his  hand  on  the  holster  at 
his  hip,  Landor  who  sat  staring  as  one  who  doubts  his 
own  sight.  u  Am  I  sane,  men?  Look,  there  to  your 
right!" 

They  looked.  They  rubbed  their  eyes  and  looked 
again. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned,"  voiced  Crosby;  and  no 
man  had  ever  heard  him  express  surprise  before.  To 
the  north,  from  the  edge  of  the  tall  surrounding  grass, 
moving  slowly,  yet  without  a  trace  of  hesitation  or 
of  fear,  coming  straight  toward  them  across  the 
trampled  earth,  were  two  tiny  human  figures,  hand  in 
hand.  No  wonder  they  who  saw  stared;  no  wonder 
they  doubted  their  eyes.  One,  the  figure  to  the  right, 
was  plump  and  uncertain  of  step  and  all  in  white; 


42  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

white  which  in  the  moonlight  and  against  the  black 
earth  seemed  ghostly.  The  other  was  slim  and  cer 
tain  of  movement  and  dark — dark  as  a  copper  brown 
Indian  boy,  naked  as  when  he  came  on  earth.  On 
they  came,  the  brown  figure  leading,  the  white  fol 
lowing  trustfully,  until  they  were  quite  up  to  the 
watchers,  halted,  still  hand  in  hand. 

"  How,"  said  a  voice,  a  piping  childish  voice. 

Like  rustics  at  a  spectacle  the  men  stared,  turned 
mystified  faces  each  to  each,  and  stared  anew.  All 
save  one.  Off  from  his  horse  sprang  Landor,  caught 
the  bundle  of  white  in  his  arms. 

"Baby  Rowland!  Baby  Bess!  And  you,"— he 
was  staring  the  other  from  head  to  toe,  the  distance 
was  short, — "  who  are  you?  " 

"  Uncle  Billy,"  interrupting,  ignoring,  the  tiny  bit 
of  femininity  nestled  close,  "  Uncle  Billy,  where's 
papa  and  mamma !  I  want  them." 

Closer  and  closer  the  big  bachelor  arms  clasped 
their  burden ;  unashamed,  there  with  the  others  watch 
ing  him,  he  kissed  her. 

"  Never  mind  now,  Kiddie.  Tell  me  how  you 
came  here,  and  who  this  is  with  you." 

About  the  great  neck  crept  two  arms,  clinging 
tightly. 

"  He  just  came,  Uncle  Billy.  I  was  calling  for 
papa.  Papa  put  me  to  sleep  and  forgot  me.  The 
boy  heard  me  and  took  me  out.  I  was  afraid  at  first, 
but — but  he's  a  nice  boy,  only  he  won't  talk  and — 
and "  The  narrative  halted,  the  tousled  head 


Discovery  43 

buried  itself  joyously.  "  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you  came, 
Uncle  Billy!" 

In  silence  Lander's  eyes  made  the  circle  of  inter 
ested  watching  faces,  returned  to  the  winsome  brown 
face  so  near  his  own. 

"  Aren't  you  hungry,  Kid?  "  he  ventured. 

On  his  shoulder  the  dark  poll  shook  a  negative. 

"  No.  We  had  corn  to  eat.  The  boy  roasted  it. 
He  made  a  big  fire.  He's  a  nice  boy,  only — only  he 
won't  say  anything." 

Again  Landor's  eyes  made  the  circle,  halted  at  the 
intrepid  brown  waif  who,  that  first  word  of  greeting 
spoken,  had  silently  stared  him  back. 

"  You're  sure  you  don't  know  anything  more, 
baby?  You  didn't  hear  anything  until  the  boy  came?  " 

"  No,  Uncle  Billy.  I  was  asleep.  When  I  woke 

up  it  was  dark,  and  I  was  hungry  and — and " 

At  last  it  had  come:  the  spattering,  turbulent  tear 
storm.  Her  small  body  shook,  her  arms  clasped 
tighter  and  tighter.  "  Oh,  Uncle  Billy,  I  want  my 
papa  and  mamma.  I  tried  to  find  them,  and  I 
couldn't.  Please  find  them  for  me,  Uncle  Billy. 
Please!  Please!" 

It  was  well  past  midnight.  The  big  full  moon,  high 
now  in  the  sky,  cast  their  shadows  almost  about  their 
feet  when,  their  labour  complete,  the  party  took  up 
the  homeward  trail.  But  there  were  twenty  no 
longer.  At  their  head  as  before  rode  Landor,  in  his 
arms  not  a  rifle  but  a  blanket;  a  blanket  from  which 


44  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

as  they  journeyed  on  came  how  and  anon  a  sound 
that  was  alien  indeed:  the  sobs  of  a  baby  girl  who 
wept  as  she  slept.  Back  of  him,  likewise  as  when 
they  had  come,  rode  hatchet-faced  Crosby;  but  he, 
too,  was  not  as  before.  His  saddle  had  been  removed 
and,  in  front  of  him,  astride  the  horse's  bare  back, 
warmed  by  the  animal  heat,  was  a  brown  waif  of  a 
boy;  not  asleep  or  even  drowsy,  but  wide  awake  in 
deed,  silently  watchful  as  a  prairie  owl  of  every  move 
ment  about  him,  every  low-spoken  word.  What 
whim  of  satirist  chance  had  put  him  there,  what  fate 
for  good  or  evil,  they  could  only  conjecture,  could 
not  know,  could  never  know;  yet  there  he  was, 
strangest  figure  in  a  land  that  knew  only  the  bizarre, 
with  whom  the  unbelievable  was  the  normal.  Slowly 
now,  weary  to  death  with  the  long,  long  day,  de 
pressed  with  the  inevitable  reaction  from  the  excite 
ment  of  the  past  hours,  they  moved  away,  to  the 
south,  to  the  west.  In  front  of  them,  glittering  in  the 
moonlight,  seemingly  infinite,  stretched  the  waves  of 
the  rolling  prairie,  bare  as  the  sea  in  a  calm.  Be 
hind  them,  growing  lesser  and  lesser  minute  by 
minute,  merging  into  the  infinite  white,  were  three 
black  dots  like  tiny  boats  on  the  horizon's  edge.  On 
they  went,  a  half  mile,  a  mile,  looked  behind;  and, 
with  an  awe  no  familiarity  could  prevent,  faced  ahead 
anew.  Back  of  them  now  as  well  as  before,  uni 
formly  endless,  uniformly  magnificent,  stretched  that 
giant  ocean:  silent,  serene,  as  mother  nature,  as  na 
ture's  master,  God  himself. 


Chapter  IV 

RECONSTRUCTION 

THE  day  of  the  Indian  terror  had  passed.  No 
longer  did  the  name  of  Little  Crow  carry  stampede 
in  its  wake.  The  battles  of  Big  Mound,  of  White 
Stone  Hill,  and  of  the  Bad  Lands  had  been  fought, 
had  become  mere  history;  dim  already  to  the  new 
comer  as  Lexington  or  Bull  Run.  Still  in  the  mem 
ory,  to  be  sure,  was  the  half-invited  massacre  of 
Custer  at  the  Little  Big  Horn;  but  the  savage  genius 
of  Sitting  Bull,  of  Crazy  Horse,  and  of  Gall,  who 
had  made  the  last  great  encounter  bloodily  unique  in 
the  conflict  of  the  red  man  and  the  white,  was  never 
to  be  duplicated.  Rightly  or  wrongly  deprived 
of  what  they  had  once  called  their  own,  driven  back, 
back  on  the  crest  of  the  ever-increasing  wave  of 
settlement,  facing  the  alternative  of  annihilation  or 
of  submergence  in  that  flood,  the  Sioux  had  halted 
like  a  wild  thing  at  bay,  with  their  backs  to  the  last 
stronghold,  the  richest  plot  of  earth  on  the  face  of 
the  globe,  the  Black  Hills  country,  and  as  a  cornered 
animal  ever  fights,  had  battled  ferociously  for  a  lost 
supremacy.  But,  robbers  themselves,  holding  the 
land  on  the  insecure  title  of  might  alone,  fighting  to 
the  end,  they  had  at  last  succumbed  to  the  inevitable : 
the  all-conquering  invasion  of  the  dominant  Anglo- 

45 


46  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

Saxon.  Here  and  there  a  name  stood  out :  "  Scar 
let  Point,"  "  Strikes-the-Ree,"  "  Little  Crow,"  "  Sit 
ting  Bull,"  "  Crazy  Horse,"  "  Spotted  Tail,"  "  Red 
Cloud,"  "  Gall,"  "  John  Grass,"  names  that  in  mul 
tiple  impressed  but  by  their  fantastic  suggestion;  but 
their  original  pulse-accelerating  meaning  had  long  j 
since  passed.  Now  and  then  a  prairie  mother,  driven 
to  desperation,  might  incite  temporary  rectitude  in  the 
breast  of  an  incorrigible  by  a  harrowing  reference  to 
one  or  to  another;  yet  to  the  incoming  swarms  of 
land-hungry  settlers  they  were  mere  supplanted 
play  actors,  fit  heroes  for  fiction,  for  romance  perhaps ; 
but  like  the  bison  to  be  kept  in  small  herds  safe  in  the 
pasture  of  a  reservation,  preserved  as  a  relic  of  a 
species  doomed  to  extinction. 

A  thing  at  which  to  marvel  was  the  growth  of  the 
eastern  border  of  Dakota  Territory  in  this,  the  time 
of  the  great  boom.  History  can  scarcely  find  its 
parallel.  In  the  space  of  a  decade  the  census  leaped 
from  two-score  thousand  to  nearly  a  half  million. 
New  towns  sprang  up  like  fungi  in  a  night.  Rail 
roads  reached  out  like  the  tentacles  of  an  octopus, 
where  a  generation  before  the  buffalo  had  tramped  its 
tortuous  trail.  Prosperous  farms  came  into  being 
in  the  meadows  where  the  antelope  had  pastured. 
Artesian  wells,  waterworks,  electric  lights,  street 
railways,  colleges,  all  the  adjuncts  of  a  higher  civilisa 
tion,  blossomed  forth  under  the  magic  wand  of  East 
ern  capital.  Doomed  to  reaction,  as  an  advancing 
pendulum  is  doomed  to  retrace  its  cycle,  was  this  pre- 


Reconstruction  47 

mature  evolution;  but  temporarily,  2$  a  springtime 
freshet  bears  onward  the  driftwood  in  its  path,  it 
carried  its  predecessor,  the  unconventional,  fighting, 
wild-loving  adventurer,  before.  On  it  went,  on  and 
on  until  at  last,  fairly  blocking  its  path,  was  the  big, 
muddy,  dawdling  Missouri.  Then  for  the  first  time 
it  halted;  halted  in  a  pause  that  was  to  last  for  a 
generation.  But  it  had  fulfilled  its  mission.  High 
and  dry  on  the  western  side  of  the  barrier,  imbued 
as  when  they  had  settled  to  the  east,  with  the  restless 
spirit  of  the  frontier,  unsubdued,  unchanged,  it  cast 
its  burden.  There,  as  they  had  done  before,  the  new 
comers  immediately  took  root,  and,  after  the  passage 
of  a  year,  were  all  but  unconscious  of  the  migration. 
Over  their  heads  was  the  same  blue  prairie  sky. 
Around  them,  treeless,  trackless,  was  the  same  roll 
ing,  illimitable  prairie  land.  In  but  one  essential  were 
conditions  changed;  yet  that  one  was  epoch-making. 
Heretofore,  surrounded  by  a  common,  an  alien 
danger,  compelled  at  a  second's  warning  to  band  to 
gether  for  life  itself,  all  men  were  brothers.  Now, 
with  the  passing  of  the  red  peril,  with  eradication  of 
necessity  for  any  manner  of  restraint,  an  abandon  of 
licence,  of  recklessness,  born  of  the  wild  life,  of  over 
flowing  animal  vitality  insufficiently  employed,  swept 
the  land  like  a  contagion.  Unique  in  the  history  of 
man's  development  was  this  the  era  of  the  cowboy, 
as  fantastic  now  as  the  era  of  the  red  peril,  its  pred 
ecessor;  yet  vital,  bizarre,  throbbing,  unconsciously 
human,  as  no  other  period  has  ever  been,  as  in  all 


4$  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

probability  none  will  ever  be  again.  Generous, 
spendthrift,  murderous  when  crossed,  chivalrous, 
fearless,  profane,  yet  fundamentally  religious,  in 
ebriate,  wilful  and  docile  by  turns,  ceaselessly  active, 
eternally  discontented,  seeking  they  knew  not  what, 
they  were  their  own  evil  genius ;  as  certainly  as  nature 
surrounded  them  with  Heaven,  they  supplied  their 
own  Hell  and,  impartial,  chose  from  each  to  weave 
the  web  of  their  lives. 

Of  this  period,  life  of  this  life,  was  Colonel  Wil 
liam  Landor;  colonel  no  longer,  plain  Bill,  from  the 
river  to  the  Hills,  husband  these  ten  years  now,  but 
not  father,  Cattle  King  of  an  uncontested  range.  Of 
this  life  likewise,  bred  in  it,  saturated  in  it,  was  a  dark 
young  woman,  his  adopted  daughter,  two  years  past 
her  majority,  Elizabeth  Rowland  Landor  by  name. 
Of  it  most  vitally  of  all,  born  of  it,  rooted  in  it 
through  unknown  centuries  of  ancestral  domicile,  was 
a  copper-brown  young  man,  destitute  as  a  boy  of 
twelve  of  a  trace  of  beard,  black  as  a  prairie  crow  of 
hair  and  eyes,  deep-lunged  like  a  race-track  thorough 
bred,  wiry  as  a  mustang,  garbed  as  a  white  man,  but 
bearing  the  liquid  name  of  a  Teton  Sioux,  "  Ma-wa- 
cha-sa,  the  lost  pappoose,"  yet  known  wherever  the 
Santee  Massacre  and  the  tale  of  his  appearance  was 
known,  as  "  How  "  Landor.  Of  this  period,  last  of 
all,  was  the  great  B.  B. — Buffalo  Butte — ranch,  giant 
among  the  giants,  whose  brand  was  familiar  as  hJs 
own  name  to  every  cowboy  west  of  the  Missouri, 
whose  hospitable  ranch  house,  twenty-odd  miles  from 


Reconstruction  49 

the  vest  pocket  metropolis  of  Coyote  Centre,  which 
in  turn,  to  quote  Landor  himself,  was  "  a  hundred 
miles  from  nowhere,"  was  the  Mecca  of  every  travel 
ler  whom  chance  drew  into  this  wild,  of  every  curious 
tenderfoot  seeking  a  glimpse  of  the  reverse  side  of  the 
coin  of  life,  of  every  desperate  "  one  lunger,"  who, 
with  gambler  instinct,  staked  his  all  on  prairie  sun 
and  prairie  air. 


Chapter  V 

THE   LAND  OF  LICENCE 

FOR  twenty- four  hours  the  two  cowmen  from  the  dis 
tant  Clay  Creek  ranch  had  owned  Coyote  Centre. 
An  hour  before  sunset  on  the  day  previous  they  had 
suddenly  blown  in  from  the  north;  a  great  cloud  of 
yellow  dust,  lifting  lazily  on  the  sultry  air,  a  mighty 
panting  of  winded  bronchos,  a  single  demoniacal 
dare-man  whoop  heralding  their  coming,  a  groaning 
of  straining  leather,  a  jingle  of  great  spurs,  and  an 
otherwise  augmented  stillness  even  in  this  silent  land, 
marking  their  arrival.  Pete  it  was,  Pete  Sweeney, 
"  Long  Pete,"  who  first  dismounted.  Pete  likewise 
it  was  who  first  entered  the  grog  shop  of  Red  Jen 
kins.  Pete  again  it  was  who,  ere  ten  words  had 
passed,  drew  cold-blooded,  point  blank  at  the  only 
man  who  saw  fit  to  question  the  invader's  right  of 
absolute  ownership.  Pete  it  was  once  again  who, 
when  the  smoke  had  cleared  away,  assisted  in  laying 
out  that  same  misguided  citizen,  in  decent  fellowship, 
beneath  the  cottonwood  bar,  and  thrust  an  adequate 
green  roll  in  the  stiffening  hand  for  funeral  expenses. 
"  It's  Bill's  own  fault,"  he  commented  lucidly  the 
while.  "  I  don't  visit  you  very  often;  but  when  I  do 
I've  got  the  dough  to  make  it  square,  and  this  town's 
my  sausage,  skin,  curl,  and  all.  D'ye  understand?" 

5° 


The  Land  of  Licence  51 

and  from  Manning,  the  greybearded  storekeeper,  to 
Rank  Judge,  the  one-legged  saddler,  there  was  no 
one  to  say  him  nay,  none  to  contest  his  right  of 
authority. 

By  no  means  without  an  officer  of  the  law  was 
.Coyote  Centre.  Under  ordinary  conditions  its  maj* 
esty  was  ably,  even  aggressively,  upheld  by  its  rep- 
resentative,  Marshal  Jim  Burton.  Likewise  there 
was  no  lack  of  pilgrims,  who  by  devious  and  circuitous 
routes  sought  his  residence  on  this  occasion,  with  tales 
of  distress  and  petitions  for  succour;  but  one  and  all 
departed  with  their  mission  unfulfilled.  The  doughty 
James  was  not  to  be  found.  Urgent  business  of  in 
definite  duration,  at  an  even  more  indefinite  destina 
tion,  had  called  him  hence.  No  one  regretted  the 
mischance  so  much  as  stalwart  Mrs.  Burton,  who  im 
parted  the  information,  no  one  deplored  the  lost  op 
portunity  for  distinction  so  much  as  she;  but  neverthe 
less  the  fact  remained.  For  the  time  being,  Coyote 
Centre  was  thrown  upon  its  own  resources,  was  left 
to  work  out  its  own  salvation  as  best  it  might. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  for  a  long,  long  dragging 
day,  and  the  beginning  of  a  second,  the  gunpowder 
had  intermittently  burned,  and  that  more  than  inter 
mittently,  all  but  continuously,  the  red  liquor  had 
flowed;  to  the  alternate  aggrandisement  of  Red  Jen 
kins  and  his  straw-haired  Norwegian  rival  across  the 
street — Gus  Ericson.  Unsophisticated  ones  there  were 
who  fancied  that  ere  this  it  would  all  end,  that  Mr. 
Sweeney's  capacity  for  absorption  had  a  limit.  Four 


52  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

separate  gentlemen,  with  the  laudable  intention  of 
hastening  that  much  to  be  desired  condition,  had 
sacrificed  themselves  for  the  common  weal ;  but  to  the 
eternal  disgrace  of  the  town,  all  of  them  were  now 
down  and  out,  and  in  various  retired  spots,  where 
they  had  been  deposited  by  their  sympathising  friends, 
were  snoring  in  peaceful  oblivion.  Even  Len  Barker, 
game  disciple  of  the  great  master,  had  reached  his 
limit  and,  no  longer  formidable,  had,  without  form  of 
law,  been  deposited  for  safekeeping,  and  with  a  sigh 
of  relief,  in  the  corporate  Bastile;  but  Mr.  Sweeney 
himself,  Mr.  Sweeney  of  the  hawk  eye  and  the  royal 
tread,  despite  a  lack  of  sleep  and  of  solid  sustenance, 
was,  to  all  visible  indications,  as  fresh  and  aggressive 
as  at  the  beginning. 

Now  for  the  second  time  night  was  coming  on. 
Neither  up  nor  down  the  single  business  thorough 
fare  did  a  street  lamp  show  its  face.  One  and  all 
had  succumbed  long  before  to  the  god  of  gunpowder. 
Not  a  stray  dog,  and  Coyote  Centre  was  plethoric  of 
canines,  raised  its  voice  nor  showed  even  a  retreating 
tail  near  the  area  of  disturbance.  Wisdom  and  a 
desire  for  deepest  obscurity  had  come  to  the  many, 
swift  and  sudden  annihilation  to  the  few.  Tempo 
rarily,  yet  effectively  as  though  a  cyclone  were  immi 
nent,  business  and  social  life  were  paralysed.  They 
were  a  tolerant  breed,  these  citizens  of  Coyote  Centre; 
repeated  similar  experience  had  not  been  without  its 
effect;  moreover,  the  object  lesson  of  the  day  before 
was  still  vivid  in  their  minds;  but  at  last  patience 


The  Land  of  Licence  53 

was  reaching  its  limit.  In  the  closed  doorway  of  the 
town  hall  a  tiny  group  of  men  were  gathered,  a  group 
who  spoke  scarcely  above  a  whisper,  who  kept  a 
sharp  lookout  all  surrounding,  who  stood  ready  at 
the  twitch  of  an  eyelash  to  disperse  to  the  four  winds. 
This  was  revolt  incipient.  In  the  single  room  of 
Bob  Manning's  general  store  was  open  revolt  and 
plotting.  Manning  himself,  grizzled,  grey  of  hair, 
shaggy  bearded,  had  the  floor. 

"  You're  a  bunch  of  measly  cowards,"  he  included 
indiscriminately.  "  You  come  here  with  your  stories 
and  croak  and  croak,  and  still  not  one  of  you  would 
dare  say  a  word  to  Pete's  face,  not  one  of  you  but 
would  stand  and  let  him  twist  your  nose  if  he  saw  fit." 
He  glowered  from  one  horn  of  the  silent,  listening 
semicircle  to  the  other,  with  all-including  disdain. 
"  If  you  don't  like  it,  why  don't  you  put  a  stop  to  it? 
If  Jim  Burton  has  sneaked,  why  don't  you  elect  a 
new  marshal?  You're  damned  cowards,  I  say." 

In  his  place  on  the  cover  of  a  barrel  of  dried 
apples,  Bud  Smith,  the  weazened  little  land  man, 
shifted  as  though  the  seat  hurt  him. 

"  P'raps  you're  right,  dad,"  he  commented  imper- 
turbably,  "  and  agin  p'raps  you're  not.  It's  all  well 
enough  to  say  appoint  a  new  marshal,  but  as  fer's 
I've  been  able  to  discover  there's  no  one  hereabouts 
hankerin'  fer  the  job."  He  spat  at  a  crack  in  the 
cottonwood  floor  meditatively,  struck  true,  and  seemed 
mildly  pleased.  "  Our  buryin'  patch  is  growin'  com 
fortably  rapidly  as  it  is,  without  adding  any  marshals 


54  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

to  the  collection.  I've  known  Pete  Sweeney  fer  quite 
a  spell,  and  my  private  advice  is  to  let  him  alone. 
There  ain't  coffins  enough  this  side  the  river  to  supply 
the  demand,  if  you  was  to  try  to  arrest  him  when  he's 
feelin'  as  he's  feelin'  now." 

a  Who  mentioned  arresting?"  broke  in  Walt 
Wagner,  the  lanky  Missourian,  who  drove  the  stage. 
"  Pot  him,  I  say.  Pot  him  the  first  time  he  isn't 
looking." 

For  a  long  half  minute  Bud  observed  the  speaker; 
analytically,  meditatively. 

"  Evidently  you  ain't  been  a  close  observer,  my 
boy,"  he  commented  at  last,  impersonally,  "  or  you 
wouldn't  be  talkin'  of  Pete  not  lookin'.  I  ain't  no 
weather  prophet,  but  I'd  hint  to  the  feller  who  tackles 
that  job  to  say  his  prayers  before  he  starts.  He 
won't  have  much  time  afterwards."  With  a  swifter 
movement  than  he  had  yet  made,  the  speaker  slid 
from  his  place  to  the  floor,  involuntarily  cast  a  glance 
into  the  street  without.  "  I  ain't  perticularly  scared, 
boys,"  he  explained,  u  and  I  ain't  lookin'  fer  trouble 
neither.  Between  yourselves  and  myself,  it  ain't  at 
all  healthy  to  sit  here  discussin'  the  matter.  Some 
one's  bound  to  peach  on  you,  and  then  there's  sure  to 
be  a  call.  You  better  scatter  and  let  it  blow  over." 

"  Scatter  nothing,"  exploded  Wagner,  belliger 
ently.  "  Slide  if  you  want  to,  if  you've  got  cold  feet. 
I  for  one  intend  staying  here  as  long  as  I  see  fit, 
Sweeney  or  no  Sweeney." 

"You  do,  do  you?"     It  was  Manning  this  time 


The  Land  of  Licence  55 

who  spoke,  Manning  with  his  deep-set  eyes  flashing 
over  his  high  cheek  bones.  "  Well,  maybe  IVe  got 
something  to  say  about  that."  He  came  out  from  be 
hind  the  counter,  faced  the  lanky  figure  before  him, 
with  deliberate  contempt.  "  You're  a  mighty  stiff- 
,  backed  boy  in  the  daytime,  you  are,  Walt  Wagner,  but 

in  the  dark "  He  halted  and  his  mouth  curled  in 

bitterest  sarcasm.  "  Why,  if  you're  so  anxious  for  a 
scrap,  don't  you  run  for  marshal?  Why  don't  you 
take  the  job  right  now  and  put  Pete  out  of  business?  " 
And  his  mouth  curled  again. 

Beneath  its  coat  of  tan  Wagner's  face  reddened; 
then  went  white.  Involuntarily  his  lip  curled  back 
like  that  of  a  cornered  dog,  and  until  it  showed  the 
lack  of  a  prominent  front  tooth. 

"  Seeing  you  are  so  free  with  your  tongue,"  he  re 
torted,  "  I  might  ask  you  the  same  question.  I  ain't 
no  property  interest  here  being  destroyed  like  you 
have.  Why  don't  you  do  the  trick  yourself,  dad?  " 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  inaction;  then  of 
a  sudden  the  old  man  stiffened.  With  an  effort  al 
most  piteous,  he  attempted  to  square  his  shoulders; 
but  they  remained  round  as  before. 

"  Why  don't  I?  "  He  held  up  his  right  hand- 
minus  the  index  and  middle  fingers.  He  held  up  his 
left,  stiffened  and  shrivelled  with  rheumatism. 
"  Why  don't  I  ?  "  He  clumped  the  length  of  the 
tiny  storeroom  and  back  again;  one  crippled  leg  all 
but  dragging.  "  Why  don't  I?"  repeated  for  the 
third  time.  "  Do  you  imagine  for  the  fraction  of  a 


56  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

second,  Walt  Wagner,  that  if  I  was  back  twenty  years 
and  sound  like  you  are,  I'd  be  asking  another  man 
why  he  didn't  do  the  job  ? "  Terrible,  almost 
ghastly,  he  stood  there  before  them,  the  picture  of 
bitter  rage,  of  impotent,  distorted  senility.  "  Have 
you  got  the  last  spark  of  manhood  left  in  you,  and 
ask  that  question  of  me?  " 

In  the  pockets  of  his  trousers  Wagner's  hands 
worked  nervously.  His  face  went  red  again,  but  he 
gave  no  answer.  Bud  Smith  it  was,  Bud  Smith, 
five-feet-two,  with  a  complexion  prairie  wind  had 
made  like  a  lobster  display  in  a  cafe  window,  who  had 
halted  at  the  door,  but  who  now  came  back,  he  it  was 
who  spoke. 

"  And  while  you're  in  the  talkin'  business,"  he  sug 
gested  slowly,  "  you  might  elab'rate  what  you  meant 
a  bit  ago  by  intimatin'  that  I  had  cold  feet.  We'll 
listen  to  that,  too,  any  time  you  see  fit  to  explain, 
pardner." 

"  You  want  to  know,  do  you?  "  Wagner's  coun 
tenance  had  become  normal  again,  and  with  an  effort 
at  nonchalance  he  leaned  his  elbows  back  against  the 
glass  showcase,  glancing  the  while  down  at  the  small 
man,  almost  patronisingly.  "  Well,  then,  for  your 
benefit,  I  was  merely  observing  that  you  filled  the  bill 
of  what  dad  here  said  a  bit  ago  we  all  were."  He 
smiled  tantalisingly;  again  showing  the  vacancy  in  his 
dental  arch.  "  You  remember  what  that  was,  don't 
you?" 

"P'raps  and  p'raps  not,"  still  deliberately.     "I 


The  Land  of  Licence  37 

ain't  lookin'  fer  trouble,  mind  you,  but  I  just  like  to 
have  things  explicit.  To  be  dead  sure,  I'd  like  to 
have  you  repeat  it." 

Again  there  was  silence.  In  it  Bob  Manning  re 
turned  to  his  place  behind  the  counter;  his  game  leg 
shuffling  behind  him  as  he  moved.  In  it  likewise 
there  was  an  interruption  from  without;  the  subdued 
clatter  of  a  horse's  feet  on  the  packed  earth  of  the 
street,  the  straining  of  leather,  as  the  man,  its  rider, 
alighted,  a  moment  later  the  click  of  the  door  latch 
as  the  same  man,  a  stranger  if  they  had  noticed,  en 
tered  and  halted  abruptly  at  what  he  saw.  But  those 
within  did  not  notice.  Silent  as  the  night  without, 
forgetful  for  the  moment  of  even  Pete  Sweeney,  they 
were  staring  at  those  two  actors  there  before  them. 

"  I'm  listening,"  repeated  Bud  Smith  gently.  "  I 
ain't  lookin'  fer  trouble,  you  understand;  but  as  fer 
as  I  recollect,  no  feller  of  my  own  age  ever  called 
me  coward.  If  you  think  so,  I'd  like  to  hear  you 
say  it.  I'm  listenin'  fer  you  to  say  it  now,  Walt 
Wagner." 

Again  within  the  room  there  was  silence,  and  again 
from  without  there  approached  an  interruption. 
From  up  the  street,  from  out  the  door  of  Red  Jen 
kins's  joint  it  came;  the  patter,  patter  of  many  feet, 
leading  it  the  heavy  clump  of  mighty  cowhide  boots 
on  the  cottonwood  sidewalk,  the  jingle  of  spurs  on 
those  same  boots  at  every  step,  the  deep  breathing  of 
a  cowman  intoxicated  at  last.  Down  the  walk  they 
came,  past  the  darkened  doorways  of  the  deserted 


^8  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

shops;  wordless,  menacing,  nearer  and  nearer. 
Within  the  tiny  storeroom  no  one  had  spoken,  no 
one  had  noticed.  The  arms  of  Walt  Wagner  were 
not  on  the  showcase  now.  In  the  depths  of  his 
pockets  they  were  fumbling  again,  aimlessly,  ner 
vously.  His  face  had  gone  whiter  than  before. 
Once  he  had  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  revealing  the 
blackness  of  the  vacant  tooth;  but  he  had  closed  them 
again  silently.  Now  at  last  he  cleared  his  throat, 
involuntarily  he  drew  in  a  long  breath.  Whether  he 
was  about  to  speak  they  who  watched  never  knew. 
What  if  he  had  spoken  he  would  have  said  they  like 
wise  never  knew;  for  at  that  moment,  interrupting, 
compelling,  the  door  to  the  street  swung  open  with  a 
crash,  and  fair  in  the  aperture,  filling  it,  blocking  it, 
appeared  the  mighty,  muscular  figure  of  a  cowman, 
while  upon  their  ears,  like  the  menacing  bellow  of  an 
enraged  bull,  burst  a  voice — the  challenging,  bully 
ing  voice  of  Pete  Sweeney,  inebriate. 

"  What  the  hell  be  you  fellers  doin'  here?  "  And 
when  there  was  no  answer  repeated,  "  What  the  hell 
be  you  doin',  I  say?  " 

For  a  space  that  dragged  into  a  half  minute  there 
was  inaction  while  every  man  within  sound  of  his 
voice  gazed  at  the  speaker;  at  first  almost  with  fas 
cination,  then  as  the  real  meaning  of  the  interruption 
came  over  them,  with  sensations  as  divergent  as  their 
various  individual  minds.  There  was  no  need  to  tell 
them  who  looked  at  that  towering,  intruding  figure 
that  tragedy  lurked  in  the  air,  that  death  on  the 


The  Land  of  Licence  59 

slightest  provocation,  at  the  twitch  of  a  trigger  finger, 
dwelt  in  those  big  twin  Colts  lying  menacingly  across 
the  folded  arms.  A  lunatic  escaped  was  a  pleasant 
companion,  a  child,  to  deal  with,  compared  with  Pete 
Sweeney  at  this  time.  Malevolent,  irresponsible,  dare 
god — bull  mastery  fairly  oozed  from  his  presence. 
Bad  every  inch  of  him,  hopelessly,  irredeemably  bad 
was  this  mountain  of  humanity.  Bad  from  the  soles 
of  his  misshapen  boots  to  the  baggy  chaperajos,  to  the 
bulging  holsters  at  his  hips,  to  the  gleaming  cartridge 
belt  around  his  waist,  to  the  soft  green  flannel  shirt, 
to  the  red  silk  handkerchief  about  his  throat,  to  the 
dark  unshaven  face,  to  the  drink-reddened  nose,  to  the 
mere  slits  of  eyes,  to  the  upturned  sombrero  that 
crowned  the  shock  of  wiry  hair;  bad  in  detail,  in  en 
semble,  was  this  inebriate  cowman,  bad. 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  talk?  "  Himself  interrupt 
ing  the  silence  he  came  a  step  nearer,  braced  himself 
with  legs  far  apart.  "What've  you  got  to  say  for 
yourselves?  This  ain't  no  Quaker  meeting.  Speak 
up.  What're  you  all  doin'  here?  " 

Among  the  crowd  one  man  alone  spoke,  and  that 
was  lobster-red  Bud  Smith. 

"  Tendin'  to  our  own  business,  I  reckon,  Pete," 
he  explained  evenly. 

"  You  lie  1  "  Narrower  and  narrower  closed  the 
slit-like  eyes.  "  You  lie  by  the  clock.  You  were 
planning  to  fix  ME,  you  nest  of  skunks."  From  man 
to  man  he  passed  the  look,  halted  at  last  at  the  figure 
of  the  lanky  Missourian.  "  Some  feller  here  figgered 


60  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

to  pot  me,  and  I'm  lookin'  to  see  the  colour  of  his 
hair.  Who  was  it,  I'd  like  to  know?  " 

"  Someone's  been  stuffin'  you,  Pete."  Even,  de 
liberate  as  before  Smith  spoke  the  lie.  "  We  don't 
give  a  whoop  what  you  do.  You  can  own  the  whole 
county  so  far  as  we  care.  Go  back  and  'tend  to  your 
knittin'.  Dad  here  wants  to  close  up,  now." 

"He  does,  does  he?  Well,  he  can  in  just  a 
minute,  just  as  soon  as  you  name  the  feller  I  men 
tion."  Of  a  sudden  his  eyes  shifted,  dropped  like 
claws  on  the  figure  of  the  little  land  man.  "  You 
know  who  it  is  I'm  lookin'  for.  Tell  me  his  name." 

"  You  don't  know  me  very  well,  Pete." 

"I  don't,  eh?  You  think  I  don't  know  you?" 
The  speaker  was  inspecting  the  other  as  a  house  cat 
inspects  the  mouse  within  its  paws.  "  In  other  words, 
you  mean  you  know,  but  won't  tell  me."  Linger- 
ingly,  baitingly,  almost  exultingly,  he  was  dragging 
the  denouement  on  and  on.  "  That's  what  you  mean 
to  imply,  is  it?  " 

"  You've  guessed  it,  Pete."  Not  a  muscle  in  the 
small  man's  body  twitched;  there  was  not  the  slight 
est  alteration  of  the  even  tone.  There,  facing  death 
as  surely  as  harvest  follows  seedtime,  knowing  as  he 
knew  that  but  one  man  present  could  interfere  to  pre 
vent,  that  that  man  wouldn't,  he  spoke  those  four 
words:  "You've  guessed  it,  Pete."  And  but  min 
utes  before  Manning  had  called  this  man  coward! 

For  a  moment  likewise  Sweeney  did  not  stir.  For 
a  second  his  slow  brain  failed  to  grasp  the  truth, 


The  Land  of  Licence  61 

deliberate  challenge  of  the  refusal;  then  of  a  sudden, 
in  a  blinding,  maddening  flood,  came  comprehension, 
came  action.  Swifter  than  any  human  being  would 
have  thought  possible,  unbelievably  ferocious  even  in 
this  land  of  licence,  something  took  place,  something 
which  the  staring  onlookers  did  not  realise  until  it 
was  done.  They  only  knew  that  with  a  mighty  back 
ward  leap  the  cowman  had  reached  the  single  heavy 
oak  door,  had  sent  it  shut  with  a  bang.  That  at  the 
same  time  there  was  the  vicious  spit  of  a  great  re 
volver,  that  the  odour  of  burnt  gunpowder  was  in 
their  nostrils,  that  lifting  slowly  toward  the  ceiling 
was  a  cloud  of  thin  blue  smoke;  a  curtain  that  once 
raised  made  them  shudder,  made  their  blood  run  cold, 
for  it  revealed  there,  stretched  on  the  floor,  huddled 
as  it  had  dropped,  lifeless,  motionless,  the  figure  of  the 
man  who  had  refused,  the  weazened  face  of  Land 
Man  Bud  Smith !  All  this  they  realised  in  that  first 
second;  then  something  that  was  almost  fascination 
drew  away  their  eyes  to  the  man  who  had  done  this 
deed,  to  the  man  who,  his  back  to  the  great  door,  the 
only  means  of  egress,  was  covering  them,  every  soul, 
with  the  two  great  revolvers  in  his  hands.  For  Pete 
Sweeney  was  not  drunk  now.  As  swiftly  as  that 
horrible  thing  had  been  done  he  had  gone  sober. 
Yet  no  man  who  saw  him  that  instant  feared  him  one 
whit  less.  Not  a  man  present,  believer  or  scoffer,  but 
breathed  a  silent  prayer.  And  there  was  reason.  If 
Pete  Sweeney,  Long  Pete,  had  possessed  a  real  friend 
on  earth,  he  possessed  that  one  no  more.  Disciples 


62  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

he  had,  imitators  a-plenty;  but  friends — there  had 
been  but  one,  and  now  there  was  none.  In  an  in 
stant  of  oblivion,  of  drunken  frenzy,  he  had  murdered 
that  friend;  murdered  him  without  a  chance  for  self- 
defence,  fair  in  his  tracks.  Not  another  had  done 
this  thing  but  he  himself,  he,  Cowman  Pete.  Small 
wonder  that  they  who  watched  this  man  prayed,  that 
surreptitious  glances  sought  for  an  avenue  of  escape 
where  there  was  none,  that  the  face  of  Walt  Wagner 
went  whiter  and  whiter;  for  as  certain  as  Bud  Smith 
lay  dead  there  upon  the  floor,  there  would  be  a  reck 
oning, — and  what  that  reckoning  would  be  God  alone 
could  tell ! 

And  Sweeney  himself.  After  that  first,  all  but  in 
voluntary  movement,  he  had  not  stirred.  In  his 
hands  the  big  revolvers  did  not  waver  the  breadth  of 
a  hair.  Out  of  bloodshot,  terrible  eyes  he  was  looking 
at  that  mute  figure  on  the  floor;  looking  at  it  immov 
ably,  indescribably,  with  an  impassivity  that  was  hor 
rible.  For  the  moment  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
the  others'  presence,  seemed  at  their  mercy;  and  to 
the  mind  of  Walt  Wagner  there  came  a  suggestion. 
Slowly,  surreptitiously  one  hand  came  out  of  his 
pocket,  advanced  by  the  fractions  of  inches  towards 
his  hip;  advanced  and  halted  and  advanced  again, 
reached  almost — almost 

"  That'll  do,  you !  "  It  was  not  a  voice  that  spoke, 
it  was  a  snarl :  the  snarl  of  an  angry  animal.  "  Put 
that  fist  back  in  your  breeches  or  by  God " 

No  need  to  complete  that  threat.     Back  went  the 


The  Land  of  Licence  63 

hand,  back  as  though  drawn  by  a  spring,  back  as 
though  it  were  a  paralysed,  useless  thing. 

"  Now  line  up."     At  last  the  move  had  come,  the 
move  they  had  known  was  but  a  question  of  time 
"  Toe  the  crack,  every  mother's  son  of  you.     Step 
lively." 

They  obeyed.  As  Wagner's  hand  had  done,  they 
obeyed.  Six  men  of  them  there  were :  surly  crippled 
Manning,  with  eyes  ablaze  and  jaws  set  like  a  trap; 
lank  Wagner  with  his  hands  still  in  his  pockets;  Rank 
Judge,  stumping  on  his  wooden  leg;  greasy  adipose 
Buck  Walker,  who  ran  the  meat  market;  Slim  Simp 
son,  from  the  eating  joint  opposite,  pale  as  the  tucked- 
in  apron  around  his  waist;  last  of  all  the  stranger,  tall, 
smooth-shaven,  alien  in  knickerbockers  and  blouse, 
his  lips  compressed,  at  his  throat  the  arteries  pounding 
visibly  through  his  fair  skin.  Up  they  came  at  the 
word  of  command,  like  children  with  ill-learned  les 
sons  to  recite,  like  sheep  with  a  collie  at  their  heels. 
Humorous  at  another  time  and  another  place,  that 
compliance  would  have  been;  but  with  that  mute, 
prostrate  figure  there  before  them  on  the  floor,  with 
that  other  menacing,  dominating  figure  facing  them, 
it  was  far  from  humorous.  It  was  ghastly  in  its  con 
fession  of  impotence,  in  its  mute  acquiescence  to  an 
other's  will. 

The  shuffling  of  feet  ceased  and  silence  fell;  yet 
for  some  reason  Pete  did  not  act.  Instead  he  stood 
waiting;  his  red-rimmed  eyes  travelling  from  man  to 
man,  the  fissure  between  them  deepening,  the  heavy 


64  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

lids  narrowing,  moment  by  moment.  A  long  half 
minute  he  waited,  gloating  on  their  misery,  prolonging 
their  suspense;  then  came  the  interruption.  A  step 
sounded  on  the  walk  without,  a  step  that  was  all  but 
noiseless.  A  hand  tried  the  knob  of  the  door,  found 
it  bolted,  and  tapped  gently  on  the  panel. 

Not  a  soul  within  the  room  stirred,  not  even  Long 
Pete;  but  the  narrowing  lids  closed  until  they  were 
mere  slits,  and  the  unshaven  jaws  tightened. 

Again  the  knock  sounded;  louder,  more  insistent. 

This  time  there  was  action.  One  of  the  revolvers 
in  Pete's  hand  moved  to  the  end  of  the  line,  halted. 
"  Up  with  your  hands,"  snarled  a  voice. 

Two  gnarled,  distorted  hands,  the  hands  of  Bob 
Manning,  lifted  in  air. 

"  Up  with  you,"  and  another  pair,  and  another 
and  another  followed,  until  there  were  not  two  but 
twelve. 

"  Make  a  move,  damn  you," — one  of  the  revolvers 
had  returned  to  its  holster,  the  free  hand  was  upon  the 
bolt, — "  and  I'll  drop  you,  every  cursed  one  of  you,  in 
your  tracks.  I'll  drop  you  if  I  swing  the  next  sec 
ond."  With  a  jerk,  the  door  opened  wide,  and  like  a 
flash  the  hand  returned  to  the  holster.  "  Come  in, 
you  idiot,"  he  challenged  into  the  darkness  with 
out,  "  come  in  and  take  your  medickie  with  the 


rest." 


Within  the  room  the  six  peered  at  the  blackness  oi 
the  open  doorway,  peered  and  held  their  breath.  For 
an  instant  they  saw  nothing;  then  of  a  sudden,  fair  in 


The  Land  of  Licence  65 

the  opening,  walking  easily,  noiselessly  on  moccasined 
feet,  entered  a  brand  new  actor,  advanced  half  across 
the  room,  while  his  eyes  adjusted  themselves  to  the 
light,  halted  curiously.  Back  of  him  that  instant  the 
door  again  returned  to  its  case  with  a  crash,  the  rusty 
bolt  grating  in  its  socket;  and  above  the  noise,  drown 
ing  it,  sounded  the  snarl  the  others  knew  so  well. 

"  It's  you,  is  it,  redskin?  What  the  hell  are  you 
doin'  here?" 

Deliberately,  soundlessly  as  he  had  entered,  the 
newcomer  turned.  From  his  height  of  six  feet  one, 
an  inch  below  that  of  Pete  himself,  he  returned  the 
other's  look  fixedly,  without  answer.  He  wore  a 
soft  flannel  shirt,  and  a  pair  of  dark  brown  corduroy 
trousers,  supported  by  a  belt.  Unconsciously,  as 
though  he  were  alone,  he  hitched  the  corduroys  up 
over  his  narrow  hips,  in  the  motion  of  one  who  has 
been  riding.  That  was  all. 

Closer  and  closer  came  the  red  lids  over  Pete's  eyes. 
The  furrow  between  deepened,  until  it  was  a  verita 
ble  disfigurement.  Involuntarily  his  great  nostrils 
opened. 

"Talk  up  there,  Injun,"  he  repeated  slowly;  and 
this  time  his  voice  was  almost  gentle.  "  My  name's 
Sweeney,  and  I'm  speakin'  to  you.  What  the  devil 
are  you  here  for?  " 

1     No  answer,  not  a  sound ;  not  even  the  twitching  of 
an  eyelid  or  a  muscle. 

Ten  seconds  passed,  fifteen. 

"  I'll  give  you  one  more  chance  there,  aborigine ;  " 


66  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

slowly,  with  an  effort,  almost  gratingly  came  the 
words,  like  the  friction  of  a  rusty  spring  at  the  strik 
ing  of  a  clock;  "  and  I  ain't  in  the  habit  of  doin'  that 
either,  pard."  He  halted  and  his  great  chest  heaved 
with  the  effort  of  a  mighty  breath,  his  whole  body 
leaned  a  bit  forward.  "  Tell  me  what  you  want  here, 
and  tell  me  quick,  or  by  the  eternal  I'll  fill  you  so 
full  of  holes  your  own  mother  wouldn't  recognise 
you." 

One  by  one  the  two  repeaters  shifted,  shifted  until 
they  were  focussed  upon  a  spot  midway  between  the 
belt  and  the  rolling  collar  of  the  flannel  shirt.  "  I'm 
listening,  How  Landor." 

At  last  the  moment  had  come,  the  climax,  the 
supreme  instant  in  the  career  of  those  eight  men  in 
that  tiny  weather-boarded  room.  No  need  to  tell 
seven  of  them  at  least  that  it  was  a  moment  of  life 
or  death.  If  something,  something  which  seemed  in 
evitable,  happened,  if  one  of  those  curling,  itching 
fingers  on  the  triggers  tightened,  if  but  once  that  took 
place,  their  lives  were  not  worth  the  wording  of  a 
curse.  If  once  again  that  black-visaged,  passion- 
mastered  human  smelt  powder,  there  would  be  no 
end  while  a  target  had  power  to  move,  while  a  tiny 
gleaming  cylinder  remained  in  the  row  within  his  belt. 
This  they  knew;  and  man  by  man,  as  the  Creator 
made  them,  revealed  the  knowledge.  The  jaws  of 
Bob  Manning  were  quiet  now,  but  the  old  eyes  blazed 
from  beneath  their  sockets  like  the  eyes  of  a  grey  tim 
ber  wolf,  the  centre  of  a  howling  pack.  Next  to  him 


The  Land  of  Licence  67 

lank  Wagner  stood,  waiting  with  closed  lids;  his  lips 
as  grey  as  those  of  the  dead  man  on  the  floor.  Rank 
Judge  had  not  moved,  but  the  harness  on  his  wooden 
stump  creaked  softly  as  his  weight  shifted  from  leg 
to  leg.  Fat  Buck  Walker  was  perspiring  almost  gro 
tesquely,  like  an  earthenware  pitcher.  Great  drops 
hung  from  his  chin,  from  his  uptilted  nose,  and  his 
cotton  shirt  was  dark.  Slim  Simpson,  white  before, 
was  like  a  corpse;  only  his  great  boyish  eyes  stared 
out,  as  a  somnambulist  stares,  as  one  hypnotised. 
Last  of  all,  at  the  end  of  the  line  was  the  stranger 
from  the  East,  representative  of  another  world. 
Piteous,  horrible,  the  others  had  been;  but  he — but 
for  his  clothes,  his  most  intimate  friend  would  not 
have  recognised  him  at  that  moment.  In  him,  blind, 
racking  terror  was  personified.  To  have  saved  his 
soul  he  could  not  keep  still,  and  his  heavy  walking 
shoes  grated  as  they  shuffled  on  the  rough  floor.  He 
had  bitten  his  lip  and  the  blood  stood  in  his  mouth 
and  trickled  down,  down  his  clean-shaven  face.  His 
eyes,  like  those  of  Slim  Simpson,  were  abnormally 
wide,  but  shifting  constantly  in  a  hopeless  search  for 
a  place  of  concealment,  of  safety.  If  aught  in  his 
life  merited  retribution,  the  man  paid  the  price  a  hun 
dred  times  over  and  over  that  second. 

Thus  man  by  man  they  stood  waiting;  a  back 
ground  no  art  could  reproduce,  no  stage  manager 
prodigal  of  expense.  If  on  earth  there  ever  was  a 
hell,  that  tiny  frontier  room  with  the  smoke-blackened 
ceiling  and  the  single  kerosene  lamp  sputtering  on  the 


68  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

wall,  was  tfhe  place.  Not  an  imp  thereof,  but  Satan 
himself,  stood  in  the  misshapen  boots  of  Cowman 
Pete;  doubly  vicious  in  the  aftermath  of  a  debauch, 
Pete  with  the  lust  of  blood  in  his  veins.  And  against 
him,  scant  hope  to  those  who  watched,  was  a  man; 
tall,  but  not  heavy,  smooth-cheeked  as  a  boy  of  four 
teen,  soft-eyed,  soft-handed,  without  the  semblance  of 
a  weapon.  One  branded  unmistakably  a  sleeper,  a 
dreamer,  one  apparently  helpless  as  a  woman.  Yet 
there  that  night,  within  the  space  of  minutes,  from  the 
time  there  fell  that  last  speaking  silence,  with  this  man 
the  chief  actor,  there  took  place  something,  the  re 
port  of  which  spread  swifter  than  wildfire,  from  the 
river  to  the  Hills,  from  the  north  Bad  Lands  to  the 
sandy  Platte,  that  will  live  and  be  repeated  while  tales 
of  nerve  and  of  man  mastery  quicken  the  pulses  of 
listeners.  For  after  that  night  Coyote  Centre  knew 
Long  Pete  Sweeney  no  more;  Dakota  knew  him  no 
more.  Not  that  he  was  murdered  in  cold  blood  as  he 
had  murdered  others:  it  was  not  that.  Alone,  un 
molested,  he  left,  in  the  starlight  of  that  very  night; 
but  he  knew,  and  they  who  permitted  him  to  go,  knew 
that  it  had  been  better 

But  we  anticipate. 

"  I'm  listening,  How  Landor,"  he  had  said. 

But  he  heard  nothing: — yet  he  saw.  He  saw  a 
tall,  lithe,  catlike  figure  straighten  until  it  seemed 
fairly  to  tower.  He  saw  this  same  figure  look  at  him 
fully,  squarely;  as  though  for  the  first  time  really  con 
scious  of  his  presence.  He  saw  two  unflinching  black 


The  Land  of  Licence  69 

eyes,  flanked  by  high  cheek  bones,  out  of  a  copper- 
brown  face  meet  his  own,  meet  them  and  hold  them; 
hold  them  immovably,  hold  them  so  he  could  not  look 
away.  He  saw  the  owner  of  those  eyes  move — he 
did  not  hear,  there  was  no  sound,  not  even  a  pat  from 
the  moccasined  feet,  he  merely  saw — and  move  to 
ward  him.  He  saw  that  being  coming,  coming,  saw 
it  detour  to  pass  a  prostrate  body  on  the  floor;  always 
silent,  but  always  coming,  always  drawing  nearer.  He 
saw  this  thing,  he,  Pete  Sweeney,  he,  Long  Pete, 
whose  name  alone  was  terror.  He  knew  what  it 
meant,  he  knew  what  he  should  do,  what  he  had 
sworn  to  do;  the  muzzles  of  his  two  revolvers  were 
already  focussed,  but  he  made  no  move.  His  fin 
gers  lay  as  before  on  the  triggers.  Once  in  unison 
they  tightened;  then  loosened  again.  He  did  not  act, 
this  man.  As  his  maker  was  his  judge,  he  could 
not.  He  was  wide  awake,  preternaturally  wide  awake ; 
he  tried  to  act,  tried  to  send  the  message  that  would 
make  the  muscles  tense;  but  he  could  not.  Those  two 
eyes  were  holding  him  and  he  could  not.  All  this  he 
knew;  and  all  the  while  that  other  was  coming  nearer 
and  nearer.  He  began  to  have  a  horror  of  that  com 
ing  that  he  could  not  halt.  The  great  unshaven  jaw 
of  him  worked;  worked  spasmodically,  involuntarily. 
His  skin,  flaming  hot  before,  of  a  sudden  felt  cool. 
The  sweat  spurted,  stood  damp  on  the  hairy  hands. 
Something  he  had  never  felt  before,  something  he  had 
observed  in  others,  others  like  those  six  in  the  back 
ground,  began  to  grip  him;  something  that  whitened 


yo  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

his  face,  that  made  him  feel  of  a  sudden  weak — weak 
as  he  had  never  felt  before.  And  still  those  eyes 
were  upon  him,  still  that  dark  face  came  closer  and 
closer.  Once  more  his  brain  sent  the  message  to  kill, 
once  more  he  battled  against  the  inevitable;  and  that 
message  was  the  last.  There  was  no  more  response 
than  if  he  were  clay,  than  if  his  muscles  were  the 
muscles  of  another  man.  In  that  instant,  without  the 
voicing  of  a  word,  the  deed  was  done.  That  instant 
came  the  black  chaotic  abandon  that  was  terror 
absolute.  In  pure  physical  impotence,  his  arms 
dropped  dangling  at  his  sides.  The  other  was  very 
near  now,  so  near  they  could  have  touched,  and  the 
cowman  tried  to  brace  himself,  tried  to  prepare  for 
that  which  he  knew  was  coming,  which  he  read  on  the 
page  of  that  other  face.  But  he  was  too  late. 
Watching,  almost  doubting  their  own  eyes,  the  six 
saw  the  end.  They  saw  a  dark  hand  of  a  sudden 
clench,  shoot  out  like  a  brown  light.  They  heard  an 
impact,  and  a  second  later  the  thud  of  a  great  body 
as  it  met  the  floor.  They  saw  the  latter  lift,  stumble 
clumsily  to  its  feet,  heard  a  muffled,  choking  oath. 
Then  for  a  second  time,  the  last,  that  clenched  fist 
shot  out,  struck  true.  That  was  all. 

For  a  minute,  a  long,  dragging  minute,  there  was 
silence,  inaction.  Then  for  the  first  time  the  victor 
turned,  facing  the  spectators.  Deliberately  he  turned, 
slowly,  looked  at  them  an  instant  almost  curiously, — 
but  he  did  not  smile.  Twelve  arms,  that  had  forgot 
ten  to  lower,  were  still  in  the  air — but  he  did  not 


The  Land  of  Licence  71 

smile.     Instead  he  sought  out  the  stranger  in  knicker 
bockers  and  blouse. 

"  I  came  to  meet  Mr.  Craig,  Mr.  Clayton  Craig, 
and  guide  him  to  the  B.  B.  ranch,"  he  explained, 
%*  It  is  Mr.  Lander's  wish.  Is  this  he?  " 


Chapter  VI 

THE  RED   MAN   AND   THE   WHITE 

WELL  out  upon  the  prairie,  clear  of  the  limits  of  the 
tiny  town,  two  men  were  headed  due  west,  into  the 
night,  apparently  into  the  infinite.  There  was  no 
moon,  but  here,  with  nothing  to  cast  a  shadow,  it  was 
not  dark.  The  month  was  late  October,  and  a  sug 
gestion  of  frost  was  in  the  air:  on  the  grass  blades 
of  the  low  places,  was  actually  present.  As  was  all 
but  usual  at  that  day,  the  direction  they  were  going 
bore  no  trace  of  a  road;  but  the  man  astride  the 
vicious-looking  roan  cayuse  who  led  the  way,  the 
same  copper-brown  man  with  the  corduroys  of  Bob 
Manning's  store,  showed  no  hesitation.  Like  a 
hound,  he  seemed  to  discern  landmarks  where  none 
were  visible  to  the  eye.  He  rode  without  saddle  or 
blanket,  or  spur,  or  quirt;  yet,  though  he  had  not 
spoken  a  word  from  the  moment  they  had  started,  the 
roan  with  the  tiny  ears  had  not  broken  its  steady, 
swinging,  seemingly  interminable  lope,  had  scarcely 
appeared  conscious  of  his  presence.  Almost  as  unit 
seemed  this  beast  and  human.  It  was  as  though  the 
man  were  born  in  his  place,  as  though,  liks  a  sailor  on 
a  tiny  boat,  accustomed  through  a  lifetime  to  a  roll 
ing,  uncertain  equilibrium,  the  adjustment  thereto  had 

72 


The  Red  Man  and  the  White  73 

become  involuntary  as  a  heart  beat,  instinctive  as 
breathing.  A  splendid  picture  he  made  there  in  the 
starlight  and  the  solitude ;  but  of  it  the  man  who  fol 
lowed  was  oblivious.  Of  one  thing  alone  he  was  con- 
.scious,  and  that  was  that  he  was  very  tired;  weary 
from  the  effect  of  an  unusual  exercise,  doubly  ex 
hausted  in  the  reaction  from  excitement  passed. 
With  an  effort  he  urged  his  own  horse  alongside  the 
leader,  drew  rein  meaningly. 

u  Let's  hold  up  a  bit,"  he  protested.  "  I've  come 
twenty-five  miles  to-day  already,  and  Fm  about  beat." 
He  slapped  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat  a  bit 
obviously,  and  as  his  companion  slowed  to  a  walk, 
produced  a  silver-mounted,  seal-covered  flask  and 
proffered  it  at  arm's  length.  "  The  cork  unscrews  to 
the  left,"  he  explained  suggestively. 

The  dark  figure  of  the  guide  made  no  motion  of 
acceptance,  did  not  even  glance  around. 

"  Thanks,  but  I  never  drink,"  he  declined. 

"  Not  even  to  be  sociable/' — the  hand  was  still  ex 
tended, — "not  when  I  ask  you  as — a  friend?" 

"  I  am  a  Sioux,"  simply.  "  I  have  found  that 
iiquor  is  not  good  for  an  Indian." 

For  a  second  the  white  man  hesitated;  then  with 
something  akin  to  a  flush  on  his  face,  he  returned  the 
flask  to  his  pocket  untasted. 

Again,  without  turning,  the  other  observed  the 
motion. 

"  Pardon  me,  but  I  did  not  mean  to  prevent 
you." 


74  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

He  spoke  stiffly,  almost  diffidently,  as  one  unused 
to  speech  with  strangers,  unused  to  speech  at  all;  but 
without  a  trace  of  embarrassment  or  of  affectation. 
"  I  do  not  judge  others.  I  merely  know  my  people — 
and  myself." 

Again  the  stranger  hesitated,  and  again  his  face 
betrayed  him.  He  had  scratched  an  aborigine,  and 
to  his  surprise  was  finding  indications  of  a  man. 

"  I  guess  I  can  get  along  without  it,"  shortly. 
"  I "  he  caught  himself  just  in  time  from  fram 
ing  a  self-extenuation.  "  I  didn't  have  time — back 
there,"  he  digressed  suddenly,  "  to  thank  you  for  what 
you  did.  I  wish  to  do  so  now."  He  was  looking  at 
the  other  squarely,  as  the  smart  civilian  observes  the 
derelict  who  has  saved  his  life  in  a  runaway.  Al 
ready,  there  under  the  stars,  it  was  difficult  to  credit 
to  the  full  that  fantastic  scene  of  an  hour  ago;  and  un 
consciously  a  trace  of  the  real  man,  of  condescension, 
crept  into  the  tone.  "  You  helped  me  out  of  a  nasty 
mess,  and  I  appreciate  it." 

No  answer.  No  polite  lie,  no  derogation  of  self 
or  of  what  had  been  done.  Just  silence,  attentive, 
but  yet  silence. 

For  the  third  time  the  white  man  hesitated,  and  for 
the  third  time  his  face  shaded  red;  consciously  and 
against  his  will.  Even  the  starlight  could  not  alter 
the  obtrusive  fact  that  he  had  cut  a  sorry  figure  in  the 
late  drama,  and  his  pride  was  sore.  Extenuation, 
dissimulation  even,  would  have  been  a  distinct  solace. 
Looking  at  the  matter  now,  the  excitement  past,  pal- 


The  Red  Man  and  the  White  75 

liation  for  what  he  had  done  was  easy,  almost  logical. 
He  had  not  alone  conformed.  He  had  but  done, 
without  consideration,  as  the  others  with  him  had 
done.  But  even  if  it  were  not  so,  back  in  the  land 
from  which  he  had  come,  a  spade  was  not  always  so 
called.  His  colour  went  normal  at  the  recollection. 
The  habitual,  the  condescending  pressed  anew  to  the 
fore. 

He  inspected  the  silent  figure  at  his  side  ingen 
uously,  almost  quizzically;  as  in  his  schoolboy  days 
he  had  inspected  his  plodding  master  of  physics  before 
propounding  a  query  no  mortal  could  answer. 

"  I  know  I  waved  the  white  flag  back  there  as  hard 
as  any  of  them,"  he  proffered  easily.  "  I'm  not  try 
ing  to  clear  myself;  but  between  you  and  me,  don't 
you  think  that  Pete  was  merely  bluffing,  there  at  the 
end  when  you  came?  "  The  speaker  shifted  sideways 
on  the  saddle,  until  his  weight  rested  on  one  leg,  until 
he  faced  the  other  fair.  "  The  fellow  was  drunk, 
irresponsibly  drunk,  at  first,  when  the  little  chap 
stirred  him  up;  but  afterwards,  when  he  was  sober 
On  the  square,  what  do  you  think  he  would 
have  done  if — if  you  hadn't  happened  in?  " 

For  so  long  that  Craig  fancied  he  had  not  given 
attention  to  the  question,  the  guide  did  not  respond, 
did  not  stir  in  his  seat;  then  slowly,  deliberately,  he 
turned  half  about,  turned  and  for  the  first  time  in  the 
journey  met  the  other's  eyes.  Even  then  he  did  not 
speak;  but  so  long  as  he  lived,  times  uncounted  in  his 
after  life,  Clayton  Craig  remembered  that  look;  re- 


76  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

membered  it  and  was  silent,  remembered  it  with  a 
tingling  of  hot  blood  and  a  mental  imprecation — for 
AS  indelibly  as  a  red-hot  iron  seals  a  brand  on  a 
maverick,  that  look  left  its  impress.  No  voice  could 
iiave  spoken  as  that  simple  action  spoke,  no  tongue 
chrust  could  have  been  so  pointed.  With  no  intent 
if  discourtesy,  no  premeditated  malice  was  it  given; 
and  therein  lay  the  fine  sting,  the  venom.  It  was  un 
conscious  as  a  breath,  unconscious  as  nature's  joy  in 
springtime;  yet  in  the  light  of  after  events,  it  stood 
out  like  a  signal  fire  against  the  blackness  of  night,  as 
the  beginning  of  an  enmity  more  deadly  than  death 
itself,  that  lasted  into  the  grave  and  beyond.  For 
that  silent,  unwavering  look  set  them  each,  the  red 
man  and  the  white,  in  their  niche;  placed  them  with 
an  assurance  that  was  final.  It  was  a  questioning, 
analytic  look,  yet,  unconcealed,  it  bore  the  tolerance  of 
a  strong  man  for  a  weak.  Had  that  look  been  a 
voice,  it  would  have  spoken  one  word,  and  that  word 
was"  cad.'7 

For  a  moment  the  two  men  sat  so,  unconscious  of 
time,  unconscious  of  place;  then  of  a  sudden,  to  both 
alike,  the  present  returned — and  again  that  return 
was  typical.  As  deliberately  as  he  had  moved  pre 
viously,  the  Indian  faced  back.  His  left  arm,  free  at 
his  side,  hung  loose  as  before.  His  right,  that  held 
the  reins,  lay  motionless  on  the  pony's  mane*  In  no 
detail  did  he  alter,  nor  in  a  muscle.  By  his  side,  the 
white  man  stiffened,  jerked  without  provocation  at  the 
cruel  curb  bit,  until  his  horse  halted  uncertain ;  equally 


The  Red  Man  and  the  White  77 

without  provocation,  sent  the  rowels  of  his  long  spurs 
deep  into  the  sensitive  flank,  with  a  curse  held  the 
frightened  beast  down  to  a  walk.  That  was  all,  a 
secondary  lapse,  a  burst  of  flowing,  irresponsible  pas 
sion  like  a  puff  of  burning  gunpowder,  and  it  was 
over;  yet  it  was  enough.  In  that  second  was  told  the 
tale  of  a  human  life.  In  that  and  in  the  surreptitious 
sidelong  glance  following,  that  searched  for  an  expres 
sion  in  the  boyishly  soft  face  of  his  companion.  But 
the  Indian  was  looking  straight  before  him,  looking 
as  one  who  has  seen  nothing,  heard  nothing;  and, 
silent  as  before  the  interruption,  they  journeyed  on. 

A  half  hour  slipped  by,  a  period  wherein  the 
horses  walked  and  galloped,  and  walked  again,  ere 
the  white  man  forgot,  ere  the  instinct  of  companion 
ship,  the  necessity  of  conversation,  urban-fostered, 
gained  mastery.  Then  as  before,  he  looked  at  the 
other  surreptitiously,  through  unconsciously  nar 
rowed  lids. 

"  I  haven't  yet  asked  your  name?  "  he  formalised 
baldly,  curtly. 

The  guide  showed  no  surprise,  no  consciousness  of 
the  long  silence  preceding. 

"  The  Sioux  call  me  Ma-wa-cha-sa :  the  ranchers, 
How  Landor." 

Craig  dropped  the  reins  over  his  saddle  and 
fumbled  in  his  pockets. 

"  The  Indian  word  has  a  meaning,  I  presume?  " 

"  Translated  into  English,  it  would  be  *  the  lost 
pappoose.'  " 


78  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

The  eyebrows  of  the  Easterner  lifted;  but  he  made 
no  comment. 

'*  You  have  been  with  my  uncle,  with  Mr.  Landor, 
I  mean,  long?  " 

"  Since  I  can  remember — almost." 

The  search  within  the  checkered  blouse  ended. 
The  inquisitor  produced  a  pipe  and  lit  it.  It  took 
three  matches. 

"  My  uncle  never  wrote  me  of  that.  He  told  me 
once  of  adopting  a  girl.  Bess  he  called  her,  was  it 
not?" 

"Yes." 

Already  the  pipe  had  gone  dead,  and  Craig 
struggled  anew  in  getting  it  alight,  with  the 
awkwardness  of  one  unused  to  smoking  out  of 
doors. 

"  Do  you  like  this  country,  this — desert?"  he 
digressed  suddenly. 

"  It  is  the  only  one  I  know." 

"  You  mean  know  well,  doubtless?  " 

"  I  have  never  been  outside  the  State." 

Unconsciously  the  other  shrugged,  in  an  action  that 
,was  habitual. 

"  You  have  something  to  look  forward  to  then.  I 
jead  somewhere  that  it  were  better  to  hold  down  six 
feet  of  earth  in  an  Eastern  cemetery  than  to  own  a 
section  of  land  in  the  West.  I'm  beginning  to  be 
lieve  it." 

No  comment. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  leave  though,  some  time," 


The  Red  Man  and  the  White  79 

pressed  the  visitor.  "  You  certainly  don't  intend  to 
vegetate  here  always?  " 

"  I  never  expect  to  leave.  I  was  born  here.  I 
shall  die  here." 

Once  more  the  shoulders  of  the  Easterner  lifted  in 
mute  thanksgiving  of  fundamental  difference.  Of  a 
sudden,  for  some  indefinite  reason,  he  felt  more  at 
ease  in  his  companion's  presence.  For  the  time  being 
the  sense  of  antagonism  became  passive.  What  use, 
after  all,  was  mere  physical  courage,  if  one  were  to 
bury  it  in  a  houseless,  treeless  waste  such  as  this? 
The  sense  of  aloofness,  of  tranquil  superiority,  re 
turned.  He  even  felt  a  certain  pleasure  in  question 
ing  the  other;  as  one  is  interested  in  questioning  a 
child.  Bob  Manning's  store  and  Pete  Sweeney  were 
temporarily  in  abeyance. 

"  Pardon  me,  if  I  seem  inquisitive,"  he  prefaced, 
"  but  I'll  probably  be  here  a  month  or  so,  and  we'll 
likely  see  a  good  deal  of  each  other.  Are  you 
married?  " 

"  No." 

"  You  will  be,  though."  It  was  the  ultimatum  of 
one  unaccustomed  to  contradiction.  "  No  man  could 
live  here  alone.  He'd  go  insane." 

"  I  eat  at  the  ranch  house  sometimes,  but  I  live 
alone." 

"You  won't  do  so,  though,  always."^  Again  it 
was  the  voice  of  finality. 

The  Indian  looked  straight  ahead  into  the  indefinite 
distance  where  the  earth  and  sky  met. 


8o  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

"  No,  I  shall  not  do  so  always,"  he  corroborated. 

"  I  thought  so."  It  was  the  tolerant  approval  of 
the  prophet  verified.  "  I'd  be  doing  the  same  thing 
myself  if  I  lived  here  long.  Conformity's  in  the  air. 
I  felt  it  the  moment  I  left  the  railroad  and  struck  this 
• — wilderness."  Once  again  the  unconscious  shoulder 
shrug.  "  It's  an  atavism,  this  life.  I've  reverted  a 
generation  already.  It's  only  a  question  of  time  till 
one  would  be  back  among  the  cave-dwellers.  The 
thing's  in  the  air,  I  say." 

Again  no  comment.  Again  for  any  indication  he 
gave,  the  Indian  might  not  have  heard. 

Craig  straightened,  as  one  conscious  that  he  was 
talking  over  his  companion's  head. 

"  When,  if  I  may  ask,  is  it  to  be,  your  marriage, 
I  mean?  "  he  returned.  "  While  I  am  here?  " 

For  an  instant  the  other's  eyes  dropped  until  they 
were  hid  beneath  the  long  lashes,  then  they  returned 
to  the  distance  as  before. 

"  It  will  be  soon.     Three  weeks  from  to-day." 

"  And  at  the  ranch,  I  presume?  My  uncle  will 
see  to  that,  of  course." 

"  Yes,  it  will  be  at  the  ranch." 

"  Good !  I  was  wondering  if  anything  would  be 
doing  here  while  I  was  here."  Craig  threw  one  leg 
over  the  pommel  of  his  saddle  and  adjusted  the  knick 
erbockers  comfortably.  "  By  the  way,  how  do  you — • 
your  people — celebrate  an  event  of  this  kind?  I  ad 
mit  I'm  a  bit  ignorant  on  the  point." 

"  Celebrate?    I  don't  think  I  understand." 


The  Red  Man  and  the  White^          81 

The  Easterner  glanced  at  his  companion  suspi 
ciously,  but  the  other  man  was  still  looking  straight 
ahead  into  the  distance. 

"  You  have  a  dance,  or  a  barbecue  or — or  some 
thing  of  that  sort,  don't  you?  It's  to  be  an  Indian 
wedding,  is  it  not?" 

Pat,  pat  went  the  horses'  feet  on  the  prairie  sod. 
While  one  could  count  ten  slowly  there  was  no  other 
sound. 

"  No,  there  will  be  no  dance  or  barbecue  or  any 
thing  out  of  the  ordinary,  so  far  as  I  know,"  said  a 
low  voice  then.  "  It  will  not  be  an  Indian  wedding." 

Craig  hesitated.  An  instinct  told  him  he  had  gone 
far  enough.  Lurking  indefinite  in  the  depths  of  that 
last  low-voiced  answer  was  a  warning,  a  challenge  to 
a  trespasser;  but  something  else,  a  thing  which  a  life 
time  of  indulgence  had  made  almost  an  instinct,  pre 
vented  his  heeding.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  being 
denied,  this  man;  and  there  was  no  contesting  the 
obvious  fact  that  now  a  confidence  was  being  with 
held.  The  latent  antagonism  aroused  with  a  bound 
at  the  thought.  Something  more  than  mere  curiosity 
was  at  stake,  something  which  he  magnified  until  it 
obscured  his  horizon,  warped  hopelessly  his  vision 
of  right  or  wrong.  He  was  of  the  conquering  Anglo- 
Saxon  race,  and  this  other  who  refused  him  was  an 
Indian.  Racial  supremacy  itself  hung  in  the  balance : 
the  old,  old  issue  of  the  white  man  and  the  red. 
Back  into  the  stirrup  went  the  leg  that  hung  over  thq 
saddle.  Involuntarily  as  before  he  stiffened. 


82  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

"Why,  is  it  not  to  be  an  Indian  wedding?"  he 
queried  directly.  "  You  seemed  a  bit  ago  rather 
proud  of  your  pedigree.'*  A  trace  of  sarcasm  crept 
into  his  voice  at  the  thinly  veiled  allusion.  "  Have 
you  forsaken  entirely  the  customs  of  your  people?" 

Pat,  pat  again  sounded  the  horses1  feet.  The  high 
places  as  well  as  the  low  bore  their  frost  blanket 
now,  and  the  dead  turf  cracked  softly  with  every  step. 

"  No,  I  have  not  forsaken  the  customs  of  my 
people." 

"Why  then  in  this  instance?"  insistently.  "At 
least  be  consistent,  man.  Why  in  this  single  partic 
ular  and  no  other?  " 

The  hand  on  the  neck  of  the  cayuse  tightened, 
tightened  until  the  tiny  ears  of  the  wicked  little  beast 
went  flat  to  its  head;  then  of  a  sudden  the  grip 
loosened. 

"Why?  The  answer  is  simple.  The  lady  who  is 
to  be  my  wife  is  not  an  Indian." 

For  an  instant  Craig  was  silent,  for  an  instant  the 
full  meaning  of  that  confession  failed  in  its  appeal; 
then  of  a  sudden  it  came  over  him  in  a  flood  of  com- 
preh^nsion.  Very,  very  far  away  now,  banished  into 
remotest  oblivion,  was  Pete  Sweeney.  Into  the  same 
grave  went  any  remnants  of  gratitude  to  the  other 
man  that  chanced  to  remain.  Paramount,  beckoning 
him  on,  one  thought,  one  memory  alone  possessed  his 
brain:  the  recollection  of  that  look  the  other  had 
given-  him,  that  look  he  could  never  forget  nor  for 
give, 


The  Red  Man  and  the  White  83 

"  Since  you  have  told  me  so  much,"  he  challenged, 
"  you  will  probably  have  no  objection  to  telling  me 
the  lady's  name.  Who  is  it  to  be  ?  " 

Silence  fell  upon  them.  Far  in  the  distance,  so  far 
that  had  the  white  man  seen  he  would  have  thought 
it  a  star,  a  light  had  come  into  being.  Many  a  time 
before  the  little  roan  had  made  this  journey.  Many 
a  time  he  had  seen  that  light  emerge  from  the  surface 
of  earth.  To  him  it  meant  all  that  was  good  in  life: 
warmth,  food,  rest.  The  tiny  head  shook  impa 
tiently,  shifted  sideways  with  an  almost  human  ques 
tion  to  his  rider  at  the  slowness  of  the  pace,  the 
delay. 

"  That  light  you  see  there  straight  ahead  is  in  the 
ranch  house,"  digressed  the  Indian.  "  It  is  four 
miles  away." 

Again  it  was  the  warning,  not  a  suggestion,  but 
positive  this  time;  and  again  it  passed  unheeded. 

"  You  have  forgotten  to  answer  my  question,"  re 
called  Craig. 

Swift  as  thought  the  Indian  shifted  in  his  seat, 
shifted  half  about;  then  as  suddenly  he  remembered. 
I  "  No,  I  have  not  forgotten,"  he  refuted.  "  You 
tell  me  you  have  already  heard  of  Bess  Landor.  It 
is  she  I  am  to  marry." 

At  last  he  had  spoken,  had  given  his  confidence  to 
this  hostile  stranger  man ;  not  vauntingly  or  challeng- 
ingly,  but  simply  as  he  had  spoken  his  name.  Against 
his  will  he  had  done  this  thing,  despite  a  reticence  no 
one  who  did  not  understand  Indian  nature  could  ap- 


84  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

predate.  Then  at  least  it  would  not  have  taken  a 
wise  man  to  hold  aloof.  Then  at  least  common 
courtesy  would  have  called  a  halt.  But  Clayton 
Craig  was  neither  wise  nor  courteous  this  night.  He 
was  a  great,  weary,  passionate  child,  whose  pride  had 
been  stung,  who  but  awaited  an  opportunity  to  re 
taliate.  And  that  opportunity  had  been  vouchsafed 
Moreover,  irony  of  fate,  it  came  sugar  coated.  Until 
this  night  he  had  been  unconscious  as  a  babe  of  racia) 
prejudice.  Now  of  a  sudden,  it  seemed  a  burning 
issue,  and  he  its  chosen  champion.  His  blood  tingled 
at  the  thought;  tingled  to  the  tips  of  his  well-mani 
cured  fingers.  His  clean-shaven  chin  lifted  in  air 
until  his  lashes  all  but  met. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me," — his  voice  was  a  bit 
higher  than  normal  and  unnaturally  tense, — "  do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  that  you,  an  Indian,  are  to  marry  a 
white  girl — and  she  my  cousin  by  adoption?  Is  this 
what  you  mean?  " 

Seconds  passed. 

"  I  have  spoken,"  said  a  low  voice.  "  I  do  not 
care  to  discuss  the  matter  further." 

"  But  I  do  care  to  discuss  it,"  peremptorily.  "  A$> 
one  of  the  family  it  is  my  right,  and  I  demand  an 
answer." 

Again  the  tiny  roan  was  shaking  an  impatient  head. 
It  would  not  be  long  until  they  were  home  now. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  Indian. 

"  And  that  my  uncle  will  permit  it,  gives  his  con 
sent?" 


The  Red  Man  and  the  White  85 

Again  the  silence  and  again  the  low-voiced  "  Yes." 
Over  Craig's  face,  to  his  eyebrows  and  beyond, 
there  swept  a  red  flood,  that  vanished  and  left  him 
pale  as  the  starlight  about  him. 

,  "  Well,  he  may;  but  by  God  I  wont!  "  he  blazed. 
"  As  sure  as  I  live,  and  if  she's  as  plain  as  a  hag,  so 
long  as  her  skin  is  white,  you'll  not  marry  her.  If 
it's  the  last  act  of  my  life,  I'll  prevent  you !  " 

The  voice  of  the  white  man  was  still,  but  his  heart 
was  not.  Beat,  beat,  beat  it  went  until  he  could 
scarcely  breathe,  until  the  hot  blood  fairly  roared  in 
his  arteries,  in  his  ears.  Not  until  the  challenge  was 
spoken  did  he  realise  to  the  full  what  he  had  done, 
that  inevitable  as  time  there  would  be  a  reckoning. 
Now  in  a  perfect  inundation,  the  knowledge  came  over 
him,  and  unconsciously  he  braced  himself,  awaited 
the  move.  Yet  for  long,  eternally  long  it  seemed 
to  him,  there  was  none.  The  swift  reaction  of  a 
passionate  nature  was  on,  and  as  in  Bob  Manning's 
store,  the  suspense  of  those  dragging  seconds  was 
torture.  Adding  thereto,  recollection  of  that  former 
scene,  temporarily  banished,  returned  now  irresistibly, 
cumulatively.  Struggle  as  he  might  against  the  feel 
ing,  a  terror  of  this  motionless  human  at  his  side  grew 
upon  him;  a  blind,  unreasoning,  primitive  terror. 
But  one  impulse  possessed  him :  to  be  away,  to  escape 
the  outburst  he  instinctively  knew  was  but  delayed. 
In  an  abandon  he  leaned  far  forward  over  his  saddle, 
the  rowel  of  his  spur  dug  viciously  into  his  horse's 
flank.  There  was  a  deep-chested  groan  from  the  sur- 


86  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

prised  beast,  a  forward  leap — then  a  sudden  jarring 
halt.  As  by  magic,  the  reins  left  his  hand,  were  trans 
ferred  to  another  hand. 

"  Don't,"  said  a  voice.  "  It  will  not  help  matters 
any  to  do  that.  It  will  only  make  them  worse." 
The  two  horses,  obeying  the  same  hand,  stopped  there 
on  the  prairie.  The  riders  were  face  to  face.  "  I 
have  tried  to  prevent  this,  for  the  sake  of  the  future, 
I  have  tried;  but  you  have  made  an  understanding 
between  us  inevitable,  and  therefore  it  may  as  well  be 
now."  The  voice  halted  and  the  speaker  looked  at 
his  companion  fixedly,  minutely,  almost  unbelievingly. 
"  I  know  I  am  not  as  you  white  men,"  went  on  the 
voice.  "  I  have  been  raised  with  you,  lived  my  life 
so  far  with  you ;  yet  I  am  different.  No  Indian  would 
have  done  as  you  have  done.  I  cannot  understand  it. 
Not  three  hours  ago  I  saved  your  life.  It  was  a 
mere  chance,  but  nevertheless  I  did  it ;  and  yet  already 
you  have  forgotten,  have  done — what  you  have 
done."  So  far  he  had  spoken  slowly,  haltingly;  with 
the  effort  of  one  to  whom  words  were  difficult.  Now 
the  effort  passed.  "  I  say  I  cannot  understand  it,"  he 
repeated  swiftly.  "  Mr.  Landor  has  been  very  good 
to  me.  For  his  sake  I  would  like  to  forgive  what 
you  have  done,  what  you  promise  to  do.  I  have 
tried  to  forgive  it;  but  I  cannot.  I  am  an  Indian; 
but  I  am  also  a  man.  As  a  race  your  people  have 
conquered  my  people,  have  penned  them  up  in  res 
ervations  to  die;  but  that  is  neither  your  doing  nor 
mine.  We  are  here  as  man  to  man.  As  man  to  man 


The  Red  Man  and  the  White  87 

you  have  offered  me  insult — and  without  reason." 
For  the  first  time  a  trace  of  passion  came  into  the 
voice,  into  the  soft  brown  face.  "  I  ask  you  to  take 
back  what  you  have  just  said.  I  do  not  warn  you. 
If  you  do  so,  there  is  no  quarrel  between  us.  I 
merely  ask  you  to  take  it  back." 

He  halted  expectant;  but  there  was  no  answer. 
Craig's  lips  were  twitching  uncontrollably,  but  he  did 
not  speak. 

Just  perceptibly  the  Indian  shifted  forward  in  his 
seat,  just  perceptibly  the  long  brown  fingers  tightened 
on  his  pony's  mane. 

"  Will  you  not  take  it  back?  "  he  asked. 

Once  more  the  white  man's  lip  twitched.  "  No," 
he  said. 

"No?" 

"  No." 

That  was  all — and  it  was  not  all.  For  an  instant 
after  the  Easterner  had  spoken  the  stars  looked  down 
on  the  two  men  as  they  were,  face  to  face ;  then  smil 
ing,  satiric  they  gazed  down  upon  a  very  different 
scene:  one  as  old  and  as  new  as  the  history  of  man. 
Just  what  happened  in  that  moment  that  intervened 
neither  the  white  man  nor  the  red  could  have  told. 
It  was  a  lapse,  an  oblivion;  a  period  of  primitive  phy 
sical  dominance,  of  primitive  human  hate.  When 
they  awoke — when  the  red  man  awoke — they  were 
flat  on  earth,  the  dust  of  the  prairie  in  their  nostrils, 
the  short  catch  of  their  breath  in  each  other's  ears. 
But  one,  the  dark-skinned,  was  above.  One,  again 


88  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

the  dark-skinned,  had  his  fingers  locked  tight  on  the 
other's  throat.  This  they  knew  when  they  awoke. 

A  second  thereafter  they  lay  so,  flaming  eyes  star 
ing  into  their  doubles;  then  suddenly  the  uppermost 
man  broke  free,  arose.  In  his  ears  was  the  diminish 
ing  patter  of  their  horses'  hoofs.  They  were  alone 
there  on  the  prairie,  under  the  smiling  satiric  stars.. 
One  more  moment  he  stood  so;  he  did  not  turn;  he 
did  not  assist  the  other  to  rise;  then  he  spoke. 

"  I  do  not  ask  your  pardon  for  this,"  he  said. 
"  You  have  brought  it  upon  yourself.  Neither  do  I 
ask  a  promise.  Do  as  you  please.  Try  what  you 
have  suggested  if  you  wish.  I  am  not  afraid.  Fol 
low  me,"  and,  long-strided,  impassive  as  though  noth 
ing  had  happened,  he  moved  ahead  into  the  distance 
where  in  the  window  of  the  Buffalo  Butte  ranch  house 
glowed  a  light. 


Chapter  VII 

A  GLIMPSE   OF  THE   UNKNOWN 

IT  was  very  late,  so  late  that  the  sun  entering  at  the 
south  windows  of  the  room  shone  glaringly  upon  the 
white  counterpane  of  his  bed  when  Craig  awoke 
the  next  morning.  Breakfast  had  long  been  over,  but 
throughout  the  unplastered  ranch  house  the  suggestion 
of  coffee  and  the  tang  of  bacon  still  lingered.  At 
home  those  odours  would  have  aroused  slight  sensa 
tions  of  pleasure  in  the  man,  even  at  this  time  of  day; 
but  now  and  here  they  were  distinctly  welcome,  dis 
tinctly  inviting.  With  the  aid  of  a  tin  pail  of  water 
and  a  cracked  queensware  bowl,  he  made  a  hasty 
toilet,  soliloquised  an  opinion  of  a  dressing-room 
without  a  mirror,  and  descended  the  creaking  stairs 
to  the  level  below. 

The  main  floor  of  the  ranch  house  contained  but 
three  rooms.  Of  these,  it  was  the  living-room  which 
he  entered.  No  one  was  about.  The  pipe  which 
he  had  smoked  with  his  uncle  before  retiring  the 
night  before  remained  exactly  as  he  had  put  it  down. 
His  cap  and  gloves  were  still  beside  it.  Obviously 
there  was  no  possibility  of  breakfast  here,  and  he 
moved  toward  the  adjoining  room.  On  his  way  he 
passed  a  hook  where  upon  arrival  he  had  hung  his 
riding  blouse.  Telltale  with  its  litter  of  dust  and 

89 


9O  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

grass  stems,  it  hung  there  now;  and  unconsciously  he 
scowled  at  the  recollection  it  suggested. 

Opening  the  door,  he  was  face  to  face  with  a  little 
fast-ticking  cheaply  ornate  clock.  Its  hands  indicated 
eleven,  and  the  man  grimaced  tolerantly.  As  in  the 
living-room,  no  human  was  present,  but  here  the  in 
dications  for  material  sustenance  were  more  hopeful. 
It  was  the  dining-room,  and,  although  in  the  main  the 
table  had  been  cleared,  at  one  end  a  clean  plate, 
flanked  by  a  bone-handled  knife  and  fork  and  an  old- 
fashioned  castor,  still  remained.  Moreover,  from 
the  third  roam,  the  kitchen,  he  could  now  hear  sounds 
of  life.  The  fire  in  a  cook-stove  was  crackling  cheer 
ily.  Above  it,  distinct  through  the  thin  partition, 
came  the  sound  of  a  girlish  voice  singing.  There 
was  no  apparent  effort  at  time  or  at  tune ;  it  was  un 
cultivated  as  the  grass  land  all  about;  yet  in  its  fresh 
ness  and  unconsciousness  it  was  withal  distinctly  pleas 
ing.  It  was  a  happy  voice,  a  contented  voice. 
Instinctively  it  bore  a  suggestion  of  home  and  of 
quiet  and  of  peace;  like  a  kitten  with  drowsy  eyes 
purring  to  itself  in  the  sunshine.  A  moment  the 
visitor  stood  silent,  listening;  then,  his  heavy  shoes 
clumping  on  the  uncarpeted  floor,  he  moved  toward 
it.  Instantly  the  song  ceased,  but  he  kept  on,  pushed 
open  the  door  gently,  stepped  inside. 

"Good-morning!"  he  began,  and  then  halted  in 
an  uncertainty  he  seldom  felt  among  women  folk. 
He  had  met  no  one  but  his  uncle  the  previous  night, 
Inevitably  the  preceding  incident  with  his  guide  had 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Unknown  91 

produced  a  mental  picture.  It  was  with  the  expecta 
tion  of  having  this  conception  personified  that  he  had 
entered,  to  it  he  had  spoken ;  then  had  come  the  rev 
elation,  the  halt. 

"Good-morning!"  answered  a  voice,  one  neither 
abnormally  high  nor  repressedly  low,  the  kind  of 
voice  the  man  seldom  heard  in  the  society  to  which 
he  was  accustomed — one  natural,  unaffected,  frankly 
interested.  The  owner  thereof  came  forward,  held 
out  her  hand.  Two  friendly  brown  eyes  smiled  up  at 
him  from  the  level  of  his  shoulder.  "  I  know  with 
out  your  introducing  yourself  that  you're  Mr.  Craig," 
she  welcomed.  "  Uncle  Landor  told  me  before  he 
left  what  to  expect.  He  and  Aunt  Mary  had  to  go 
to  town  this  morning.  Meanwhile  I'm  the  cook,  and 
at  your  service,"  and  she  smiled  again. 

For  far  longer  than  civility  actually  required,  to 
the  extreme  limit  of  courtesy  and  a  shade  beyond,  in 
fact,  until  it  unmistakably  sought  to  be  free,  Clayton 
Craig  retained  that  proffered  hand.  Against  all  the 
canons  of  good  breeding  he  stared.  Answering,  a 
trace  of  colour,  appearing  at  the  brown  throat, 
mounted  higher  and  higher,  reached  the  soft  oval 
cheeks,  journeyed  on. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  apologised  the  man.  He 
met  the  accusing  eyes  fairly,  with  a  return  of  his  old 
confidence.  "  You  had  the  advantage  of  me,  you 
know.  I  was  not  forewarned  what  to  expect." 

It  was  the  breaking  of  the  ice,  and  they  laughed 
together.  The  girl  had  been  working  with  arms  bare 


92  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

to  the  elbow,  and  as  now  of  a  sudden  she  rolled  the 
sleeves  down  Craig  laughed  again;  and  in  unconscious 
echo  a  second  later  she  joined.  Almost  before  they 
knew  it,  there  alone  in  the  little  whitewashed  kitchen 
with  the  crackling  cook-stove  and  the  sunshine  stream 
ing  in  through  the  tiny-paned  windows,  they  were 
friends.  All  the  while  the  girl  went  about  the  task 
of  preparing  a  belated  breakfast  they  laughed  and 
chatted — and  drew  nearer  and  nearer.  Again  while 
Craig  ate  and  at  his  command  the  girl  sat  opposite 
to  entertain  him,  they  laughed  and  chatted.  Still 
later,  the  slowly  eaten  meal  finished,  while  Elizabeth 
Landor  washed  the  dishes  and  put  everything  tidy 
and  Craig  from  his  seat  on  the  bottom  of  an  inverted 
basket  reversed  the  position  of  entertainer,  they 
laughed  and  chatted.  And  through  it  all,  openly 
when  possible,  surreptitiously  when  it  were  wise,  the 
man  gave  his  companion  inspection.  And  therein  he 
at  first  but  followed  an  instinct.  Very,  very  human 
was  Clayton  Craig  of  Boston,  Suffolk  County,  Massa 
chusetts,  and  very,  very  good  to  look  upon  was  brown- 
eyed,  brown-skinned,  brown-haired  Elizabeth  Lan 
dor.  Neither  had  thought  of  evil,  had  other  thought 
than  the  innocent  pleasure  of  the  moment  that  first 
morning  while  the  tiny  clock  on  the  wall  measured  off 
the  swift-moving  minutes.  Good  it  is  to  be  alive  in 
sun-blessed  South  Dakota  on  a  frosty  warm  October 
day,  doubly  good  when  one  is  young;  and  these  two, 
the  man  and  the  girl,  were  both  young.  Months  it 
takes,  years  sometimes,  in  civilisation,  with  barriers  of 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Unknown  93 

convention  all  surrounding,  for  people  to  touch;  but 
out  on  the  prairie,  alone,  with  the  pulse  of  nature 
throbbing,  throbbing,  insistently  all  about,  the  process 
is  very  swift,  so  swift  that  an  hour  can  suffice.  No, 
not  that  first  hour  wherein  unconsciously  they  became 
friends,  did  the  angel  with  the  big  book  record  evil 
opposite  the  name  of  Clayton  Craig;  not  until  later, 
not  until  he  had  had  time  to  think,  not  until 

But  again  we  anticipate. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you've  come,"  the  girl  had  ejaculated, 
"  now  when  you  have."  At  last  the  work  was  over, 
and  in  unconscious  comradery  they  sat  side  by  side  on 
the  broad  south  doorstep;  the  sun  shining  down  full 
upon  their  uncovered  heads — smiling  an  unconscious 
blessing  more  potent  than  formula  of  clergy.  She 
was  looking  out  as  she  spoke,  out  over  the  level  earth 
dazzling  with  its  dancing  heat  waves,  mysterious  in 
its  suggestion  of  unfathomable  silence,  of  limitless 
distance.  "  It's  such  a  little  time  now  before  I  am 
going  away,  and  Uncle  Landor  has  talked  of  you  so 
much,  particularly  of  late."  A  pause,  a  hesitating 
pause.  "  I  suppose  you'll  laugh  at  me,  but  I  hope 
you'll  stay  here,  for  a  time,  anyway,  after  I'm  gone." 

Clayton  Craig,  the  listener,  was  not  gazing  out 
over  the  prairie.  The  object  at  which  he  was  look 
ing  was  very  near;  so  near  that  he  had  leaned  a  trifle 
back  the  better  to  see,  to  watch.  He  shifted  now 
until  his  weight  rested  on  his  elbow,  his  face  on  his 
hap-d. 

*  You  are  going  away,  you  say?  "  he  echoed. 


94  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

"  Yes.  I  supposed  you  knew — that  Uncle  had 
told  you.'*  Despite  an  effort,  the  tiny  ears  were  red 
dening.  She  was  very  human  also,  was  Elizabeth 
Landor.  "  I  am  to  be  married  soon." 

"Married?"  A  long  pause.  "And  to  whom, 
please?  "  The  voice  was  very  low. 

Redder  than  before  burned  the  tiny  ears.  No 
more  than  she  could  keep  from  breathing  could  she 
prevent  telling  her  secret,  her  happiness,  this  prairie 
girl;  no  more  than  she  could  prevent  that  accompany 
ing  telltale  scarlet  flood. 

"  You  didn't  know  it,  but  you've  met  him  already," 
she  confided.  "  You  met  him  last  night."  To  her 
at  this  time  there  was  no  need  of  antecedent.  There 
was  but  one  to  whom  the  pronoun  might  refer.  "  It 
was  he  who  showed  you  here — How  Landor." 

For  a  long  time — for  he  was  thinking  now,  was 
Clayton  Craig,  and  did  not  answer — there  was  silence. 
Likewise  the  girl,  her  confession  voiced,  said  no  more; 
but  her  colour  came  and  went  expectantly,  tantalis- 
ingly,  and  the  eyes  that  still  looked  into  the  distance 
were  unconscious  of  what  they  saw.  From  his  place 
the  man  watched  the  transparent  pantomime,  read  its 
meaning,  stored  the  picture  in  his  memory;  but  he  did 
not  speak.  A  minute  had  already  passed;  but  still  he 
did  not  speak.  He  was  thinking  of  the  night  before, 
was  the  man,  of  that  first  look  he  had  received — and 
of  what  had  followed.  His  eyes  were  upon  the  girl, 
but  it  was  of  this  he  was  thinking.  Another  minute 
passed.  A  big  shaggy-haired  collie,  guardian  of  the 


rA  Glimpse  of  the  Unknown  95 

dooryard,  paused  in  his  aimless  wandering  about  the 
place  to  thrust  a  friendly  muzzle  into  the  stranger's 
hand ;  but  even  then  he  did  not  respond.  For  almost 
the  first  time  in  his  irresolute  life  a  definite  purpose 
was  taking  form  in  the  mind  of  Clayton  Craig,  and 
little  things  passed  him  by.  A  third  minute  passed. 
The  colour  had  ceased  playing  on  the  face  he  watched 
now.  The  silence  had  performed  its  mission.  It 
was  the  moment  for  which  he  was  waiting,  and  he 
was  prepared.  Then  it  was  the  angel  of  the  great 
book  opened  the  volume  and  made  an  entry;  for  then 
it  was  the  watcher  spoke. 

"I  met  him  last  night,  you  say?"  It  was  the 
hesitating  voice  of  one  whose  memory  is  treacherous. 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  recall Certainly  you 

must  be  mistaken.  I  saw  no  one  last  night  except 
Uncle  Landor  and  an  Indian  cow-puncher  with  a 
comic  opera  name."  He  met  the  brown  eyes  that 
were  of  a  sudden  turned  upon  him,  frankly,  inno 
cently.  "  You  must  be  mistaken,"  he  repeated. 

Searchingly,  at  first  suspiciously,  then  hesitatingly, 
with  a  return  of  the  colour  that  came  as  easily  as  a 
prairie  wind  stirs  the  down  of  a  milk-weed  plant, 
Elizabeth  Landor  returned  his  look.  It  was  an  in 
stinct  that  at  last  caused  her  eyes  to  drop. 

"  No,  I  was  not  mistaken,"  she  voiced.  "  How 
Landor  is  an  Indian.  It  is  he  I  meant." 

For  a  carefully  timed  pause,  the  space  in  which 
one  recovers  from  hearing  the  unbelievable,  Craig 
was  silent;  then  swiftly,  contritely  he  roused. 


96  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

"  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons,"  he  apologised.  '*  I 
meant  no  disrespect.  I  never  dreamed For 
give  me."  He  had  drawn  very  near.  "  I  wouldn't 

hurt  you  for  the  world.  I Please  forgive 

me."  He  was  silent. 

"  There's  nothing  to  forgive."  The  girl's  colour 
was  normal  again  and  she  met  his  eyes  frankly, 
gravely. 

"  But  there  is,"  protested  the  man  humbly.  "  Be 
cause  he  happened  to  be  minus  a  collar  and  had  a 
red  skin I  was  an  ass ;  an  egregious,  blundering 


ass." 


"  Don't  talk  that  way,"  hurriedly.  "  You  merely 
did  not  know  him,  was  all.  If  you  had  been  ao 

quainted  all  your  life  as  I  have "  Against  her 

will  she  was  lapsing  into  a  defence,  and  she  halted 
abruptly.  "  You  were  not  at  fault." 

Again  for  a  carefully  timed  pause  the  man  was 
silent.  Then  abruptly,  obviously,  he  changed  the 
subject. 

"  You  said  you  were  going  away,"  he  recalled. 
"Is  it  to  be  a  wedding  journey?" 

"  Yes,"  tensely. 

"  Tell  me  of  it,  please ;  I  wish  to  hear." 

"  You  would  not  be  interested." 

"  Elizabeth — "  syllabalised,  reproachfully.  "  Am 
I  not  your  cousin?  " 

No  answer. 

"  Haven't  you  forgiven  me  yet?  "  The  voice  was 
very  low.  Its  owner  was  again  very  near. 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Unknown  97 

"  You'd  laugh  at  me  if  I  told  you,"  repressedly. 
"  You  wouldn't  understand." 

Slowly,  meaningly,  Clayton  Craig  drew  away — - 
resumed  the  former  position;  the  place  from  which, 
unobserved,  he  could  himself  watch. 

"  We're  going  away  out  there,"  complied  the  girl 
suddenly,  reluctantly.  Her  hand  indicated  the  track 
less  waste  to  the  right.  "  Just  the  two  of  us  are 
going:  How  and  I.  We'll  take  a  pack  horse  and  a 
tent  and  How's  camp  kit  and  stay  out  there  alone  until 
winter  comes."  Against  her  will  she  was  warming 
to  the  subject,  was  unconsciously  painting  a  picture  to 
please  the  solitary  listener.  "  We'll  have  our  ponies 
and  ammunition  and  plenty  to  read.  The  cowboys 
laugh  at  How  because  ordinarily  he  never  carries  a 
gun;  but  he's  a  wonderful  shot.  We'll  have  game 
whenever  we  want  it.  We'll  camp  when  we  please 
and  move  on  when  we  please."  Again  unconsciously 
she  glanced  at  the  listener  to  see  the  effect  of  her  art. 
"  We'll  be  together,  How  and  I,  and  free — free  as 
sunshine.  There'll  be  nothing  but  winter,  and  that's 
a  long  way  off,  to  bring  us  back.  It's  what  I've  al 
ways  wanted  to  do,  from  the  time  I  can  remember. 
How  goes  away  every  year,  and  he's  promised  this/ 
once  to  take  me  along."  Suddenly,  almost  chal-' 
lengingly,  she  turned,  facing  the  man  her  companion. 
"  Won't  it  be  fine?  "  she  queried  abruptly. 

"  Yes,"  answered  a  voice  politely,  a  voice  with  a 
shade  of  listlessness  in  its  depths,  "  fine  indeed.  And 
if  you  want  anything  at  any  time  you  can  go  to  the 


98  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

nearest  ranch  house.  One  always  does  forget  some 
thing,  you  know." 

"  That's  just  what  we  can't  do,"  refuted  the  girl 
swiftly.  "  That's  the  best  of  it  all.  The  Buffalo 
Butte  is  the  last  ranch  that  way,  to  the  west,  until  you 
get  to  the  Hills.  We  probably  won't  see  another 
human  being  while  we're  gone.  We'll  be  as  much 
alone  as  though  we  were  the  only  two  people  in  the 
world." 

Craig  hesitated;  then  he  shrugged  self-tolerantly. 

"  I'm  hopelessly  civilised  myself,"  he  commented 
smilingly.  "  I  was  thinking  that  some  morning  I 
might  want  toast  and  eggs  for  breakfast.  And  my 
clean  laundry  might  not  be  delivered  promptly  if  I 
were  changing  my  residence  so  frequently."  He 
lifted  from  his  elbow.  "  Pardon  me  again,  though," 
he  added  contritely.  "  I  always  do  see  the  prosaic 
side  of  things."  The  smile  vanished,  and  for  the 
first  time  he  looked  away,  absently,  dreamily.  As  he 
looked  his  face  altered,  softened  almost  unbelievably. 
"  It  would  be  wonderful,"  he  voiced  slowly,  tensely, 
"  to  be  alone,  absolutely  alone,  out  there  with  the 
single  person  one  cared  for  most,  the  single  person 
who  always  had  the  same  likes  and  dislikes,  the  same 
hopes  and  ambitions.  I  had  never  thought  of  such 
a  thing  before;  it  would  be  wonderful,  wonderful!  " 

No  answer;  but  the  warm  colour  had  returned  to 
the  girl's  face  and  her  eyes  were  bright. 

"  I  think  I  envy  you  a  little,  your  happiness,"  said 
Craig. 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Unknown  99 

Warmer  and  warmer  tinged  the  brown  cheeks,  but 
still  the  girl  was  silent. 

"  Yes,  I'm  sure  I  envy  you,"  reiterated  the  man. 
"  We  always  envy  other  people  the  things  we  haven't 
ourselves;  and  I "  He  checked  himself  abruptly. 

"  Don't  talk  so,"  pleaded  the  girl.     "  It  hurts  me." 

"  But  it's  true." 

Just  a  child  of  nature  was  Elizabeth  Landor; 
passionate,  sympathetic,  unsophisticated  product  of 
this  sun-kissed  land.  Just  this  she  was;  and  another, 
this  man  with  her,  her  cousin  by  courtesy,  was  sad. 
Inevitably  she  responded,  as  a  flower  responds  to  the 
light,  as  a  parent  bird  responds  to  the  call  of  a  fledg 
ling  in  distress. 

"  Maybe  it's  true  now — you  think  it  is,"  she  halted; 
"  but  there'll  be  a  time " 

"  No,  I  think  not.  I'm  as  the  Lord  made  me." 
Craig  laughed  shortly,  unmusically.  "  It's  merely 
my  lot." 

The  girl  hesitated,  uncertain,  at  a  loss  for  words. 
Distinctly  for  her  as  though  the  brightness  of  the 
day  had  faded  under  a  real  shadow,  it  altered  now 
under  the  cloud  of  another's  unhappiness.  But  one 
suggestion  presented  itself;  and  innocently,  instinc 
tively  as  a  mother  comforts  her  child,  she  drew  nearer 
to  the  other  in  mute  human  sympathy. 

The  man  did  not  move.  Apparently  he  had  not 
noticed. 

''  The  time  was,"  he  went  on  monotonously,  "  when 
I  thought  differently,  when  I  fancied  that  some  time, 


ioo  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

somewhere,  I  would  meet  a  girl  I  understood,  who 
could  understand  me.  But  I  never  do.  No  matter 
how  well  I  become  acquainted  with  women,  we  never 
vitally  touch,  never  become  necessary  to  each  other. 
It  seems  somehow  that  I'm  the  only  one  of  my  kind, 
that  I  must  go  through  life  so — alone." 

Nearer  and  nearer  crept  the  girl;  not  as  maid  tu 
man,  but  as  one  child  presses  closer  to  another  in  the 
darkness.  One  of  her  companion's  hands  lay  listless 
on  his  knee,  and  instinctively,  compellingly,  she  placed 
her  own  upon  it,  pressed  it  softly. 

"  I  am  so  selfish,"  she  voiced  contritely,  "  to  tell 
you  of  my  own  love,  my  own  happiness.  I  didn't 
mean  to  hurt  you.  I  simply  couldn't  help  it,  it's  such 
a  big  thing  in  my  own  life.  I'm  so  sorry." 

Just  perceptibly  Craig  stirred;  but  still  he  did 
not  look  at  her.  When  he  spoke  again  there  was 
the  throb  of  repression  in  his  voice;  but  that  was 
all. 

"  I'm  lonely  at  times,"  he  went  on  dully,  evasively, 
"  you  don't  know  how  lonely.  Now  and  then  some 
one,  as  you  unconsciously  did  a  bit  ago,  shows  me  the 
other  side  of  life,  the  happy  side;  and  I  wish  I  were 
dead."  A  mist  came  into  his  eyes,  a  real  mist. 
"  The  future  looks  so  blank,  so  hopeless  that  it  be- 
com£S  a  nightmare  to  me.  Anything  else  would  be 
preferable,  anything.  It's  so  to-day,  now."  He 
halted  and  of  a  sudden  turned  away  so  that  his  face 
was  concealed.  "  God  forgive  me,  but  I  wish  it  were 
over  with,  that  I  were  dead!  " 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Unknown          101 

"  No,  no !  You  mustn't  say  that !  You  mustn't !  " 
Forgetful  entirely,  the  girl  arose,  stood  facing  him. 
Tears  that  she  could  not  prevent  were  in  the  brown 
eyes  and  her  lip  twitched.  "  It's  so  good  to  be  alive. 
You  can't  mean  it.  You  can't." 

"  But  I  do.  It's  true."  Craig  did  not  stir,  did 
not  glance  up.  "  What's  the  use  of  living,  of  doing 
anything,  when  no  one  else  cares,  ever  will  care. 
What's  the  use " 

"  But  somebody  does  care,"  interrupted  the  girl 
swiftly,  "  all  of  us  here  care.  Don't  say  that  again, 
please  don't.  I  can't  bear  to  hear  you."  She  halted, 
swallowed  hard  at  a  lump  which  rose  hinderingly 
in  her  throat.  "  I  feel  somehow  as  though  I  was  to 
blame,  as  though  if  you  should  mean  what  you  said, 

should — should "     Again  she  halted;  the  soft 

brown  eyes  glistening,  the  dainty  oval  chin  trembling 
uncontrollably,  her  fingers  locked  tight.  A  moment 
she  stood  so,  uncertain,  helpless;  then  of  a  sudden  the 
full  horror  of  the  possibility  the  other  had  suggested 
came  over  her,  swept  away  the  last  barrier  of  reserve. 
Not  the  faintest  suspicion  of  the  man's  sincerity,  of 
his  honesty,  occurred  to  her,  not  the  remotest  doubt. 
In  all  her  life  no  one  had  ever  lied  to  her;  she  had 
never  consciously  lied  to  another.  The  world  of 
subterfuge  was  an  unread  book.  This  man  had  inti 
mated  he  would  do  this  terrible  thing.  He  meant  it. 

He  would  do  it,  unless — unless 

1     "Don't,"   she   pleaded  in   abandon.     "Don't!" 
The  hand  was  still  lying  idle  on  the  man's  knee,  and 


IO2  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

reaching  down  she  lifted  it,  held  it  prisoner  between 
her  own.  It  was  not  a  suggestion  she  was  combating 
now.  It  was  a  certainty.  "  Promise  me  you  won't 
do  this  thing."  She  shook  the  hand  insistently;  at 
first  gently,  then,  as  there  was  no  response,  almost 
roughly.  "  Tell  me  you  won't  do  it.  Promise  me; 
please,  please  1  " 

"  But  I  can't  promise,"  said  the  man  dully.  "  I'm 
useless  absolutely;  I  never  realised  before  how  use 
less.  You  didn't  intend  to  do  it,  but  you've  made 
me  see  it  all  to-day.  I  don't  blame  you,  but  I  can't 
promise.  I  can't." 

Silence  fell  upon  them;  silence  complete  as  upon  the 
top  of  a  mountain,  as  in  the  depths  of  a  mine,  the  ab 
solute  silence  of  the  prairie.  For  seconds  it  remained 
with  them,  for  long-drawn-out,  distorted  seconds; 
then,  interrupting,  something  happened.  There  was 
not  a  cloud  in  the  sky,  nor  the  vestige  of  a  cloud. 
The  sun  still  shone  bright  as  before;  yet  distinctly,  un 
deniably,  the  man  felt  a  great  wet  spattering  drop  fall 
from  above  upon  his  hand — and  a  moment  later 
another.  He  glanced  up,  hesitated;  sprang  to  his 
feet,  his  big  body  towering  above  that  of  the  little 
woman  already  standing. 

"Elizabeth!"  he  said  tensely.  "Cousin  Bess! 
I  can't  believe  it."  He  took  her  by  the  shoulders 
compellingly,  held  her  at  arm's  length ;  and  the  angel 
who  watched  halted  with  pen  in  air,  indecisive. 
"  We've  known  each  other  such  a  ludicrously  short 
time — but  a  few  hours.  Can  it  be  possible  that  you 


rA  Glimpse  of  the  Unknown  103 

really  meant  that,  that  at  last  to  someone  it  does  really 
matter  ?  "  It  was  his  turn  to  question,  to  wait  breath 
lessly  when  no  answer  came.  "  Would  you  really 
care,  you,  if  I  were  dead?  Tell  me,  Bess,  tell  me, 
as  though  you  were  saying  a  prayer."  One  hand 
still  retained  its  grip  on  her  shoulder,  but  its  mate 
loosened,  instinctively  sought  that  averted,  trembling 
:hin,  as  hundreds  of  men,  his  ancestors,  had  done  to 
similar  chins  in  their  day,  lifted  it  until  their  eyes  met. 
Had  he  been  facing  his  Maker  that  moment  and  the 
confession  his  last,  Clayton  Craig  could  not  have  told 
whether  it  were  passion  or  art,  that  action.  "  Tell 
me,  Bess  girl,  is  it  mere  pity,  or  do  you  really 
care?" 

Face  to  face  they  stood  there,  eye  to  eye  as  two 
strangers,  meeting  by  chance  in  darkness  and  storm, 
read  each  the  other's  mind  in  the  glitter  of  a  lightning 
flash.  It  was  all  so  swift,  so  fantastic,  so  unexpected 
that  for  a  moment  the  girl  did  not  realise,  did  not 
understand.  For  an  instant  she  stood  so,  perfectly 
still,  her  great  eyes  opening  wider  and  wider,  opening 
wonderingly,  dazedly,  as  though  the  other  had  done 
what  she  feared — and  of  a  sudden  returned  again  to 
life;  then  in  mocking,  ironic  reaction  came  tardy  com 
prehension,  and  with  the  strength  of  a  captured  wild 
thing  she  drew  back,  broke  free.  A  second  longer 
she  stood  there,  not  her  chin  alone,  but  her  whole 
body  trembling;  then  without  a  word  she  turned, 
mounted  the  single  step,  fumbled  at  the  knob  of  the 
door. 


104  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

"  Bess,"  said  the  man  softly,  "  Cousin  Bess !  " 
But  she  did  not  glance  back  nor  speak,  and,  listening, 
his  ear  to  the  panel,  Craig  heard  her  slowly  climb  the 
creaking  stairs  to  her  own  room  and  the  door  close 
behind  her. 


Chapter  VIII 

THE   SKELETON  WITHIN  THE   CLOSET 

COMPARATIVELY  few  men  of  cheerful  outlook  and 
social  inclination  attain  the  age  of  five  and  fifty  with 
out  contracting  superfluous  avoirdupois  and  distinc 
tive  mannerism.  That  Colonel  William  Landor  was 
no  exception  to  the  first  rule  was  proven  by  the  wheez 
ing  effort  with  which  he  made  his  descent  from  the 
two-seated  canvas-covered  surrey  in  front  of  Bob 
Manning's  store,  and,  with  a  deftness  born  of  experi 
ence,  converted  the  free  ends  of  the  lines  into  hitch 
straps.  That  the  second  premise  held  true  was 
demonstrated  ten  seconds  later  in  the  unconscious 
grunt  of  soliloquy  with  which  he  greeted  the  sight  of 
a  wisp  of  black  rag  tacked  above  the  knob  of  the  door 
before  him. 

"  Mourning,  eh,"  he  commented  to  his  listening 
ego.  "  Looks  like  a  strip  of  old  Bob's  prayer-meet- 
/ing  trousers."  He  tried  the  entrance,  found  it 
locked,  and  in  lieu  of  entering  tested  the  badge  of 
sorrow  between  thumb  and  finger.  "  Pant  stuff,  sure 
enough,"  he  corroborated.  "  It  can't  be  Bob  him 
self,  or  they'd  have  needed  these  garments  to  lay  him 
oat  in.  Now  what  in  thunder,  I  wonder " 

He  glanced  across  the  street  at  Slim  Simpson's  eat- 
105 


106  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

ing  house.  Like  the  general  store,  the  door  was 
closed,  and  just  above  the  catch,  flapping  languidly  in 
a  rising  prairie  breeze,  was  the  mate  to  the  black  rag 
dangling  at  his  back.  The  spectator's  shaggy  eye 
brows  tightened  in  genuine  surprise,  and  with  near 
sighted  effort  he  inspected  the  fronts  of  the  short  row 
of  other  buildings  along  the  street. 

"  Civilisation's  struck  Coyote  Centre  good  and 
proper,  at  last,  evidently,"  he  commented.  "  They'll 
be  having  a  bevel  plate  hearse  with  carved  wood  tas 
sels  and  a  coon  driver  next !  "  He  halted,  indecisive, 
and  for  the  first  time  became  conscious  that  not  a 
human  being  was  in  sight.  In  the  street  before  him  a 
pair  of  half-grown  cockerels  with  ludicrously  long  legs 
and  abbreviated  tails  were  scratching  a  precarious  liv 
ing  from  amid  the  litter.  On  the  sunny  expanse  of 
sidewalk  before  Buck  Walker's  meat  market  a  long- 
eared  mongrel  lay  stretched  out  luxuriously  in  the 
physical  contentment  of  the  subservient  unmolested; 
but  from  one  end  of  the  single  street  to  the  other 
not  a  human  being  was  in  sight;  save  the  present 
spectator,  not  a  single  disturber  of  the  all-pervading 
quiet.  Landor  had  seen  the  spot  where  the  town  now 
stood  when  it  was  virgin  prairie,  had  watched  every 
building  it  boasted  rise  from  the  earth,  had  hitherto 
observed  it  through  the  gamut  of  its  every  mood  from 
nocturnal  recklessness  to  profoundest  daybreak  re 
morse;  but  as  it  was  now  with  the  sun  nearing  the 
meridian,  deserted,  dead 

"  Well,  I'm  beat !  "  he  exploded  as  emphatically  as 


The  Skeleton  within  the  Closet 

though  another  were  listening.  "  There  must  have 
been  a  general  cleanup  this  time.  I  fear  that  the 

report  of  my  respected  nephew "     He  checked 

himself  suddenly,  a  bit  guiltily.  Even  though  no  one 
was  listening,  he  was  loath  to  voice  an  inevitable  con 
clusion.  Decision,  however,  had  triumphed  over  sur 
prise  at  last,  and,  leaving  the  main  street,  he  headed 
toward  what  the  proud  citizens  denominated  the 
residence  quarter — a  handful  of  unpainted  weather- 
stained  one-story  boxes,  destitute  of  tree  or  of  shrub 
surrounding  as  factory  tenements.  The  sun  was  posi 
tively  hot  now,  and  as  he  went  he  unbuttoned  his  vest 
and  sighed  in  unconscious  satisfaction  at  the  relief. 
At  the  second  domicile,  a  residence  as  nearly  like  the 
first  as  a  duplicate  pea  from  the  same  pod,  he  turned 
in  at  the  lane  leading  to  the  house  unhesitatingly,  and 
without  form  of  knocking  opened  the  door  and 
stepped  inside. 

The  room  he  entered  was  bare,  depressingly  so; 
bare  as  to  its  uncarpeted  cottonwood  floor,  bare  in  its 
hard-finished,  smoke-tinted  walls.  In  it,  to  the  casual 
observer,  there  were  visible  but  four  objects :  an  old- 
fashioned  walnut  desk  that  had  once  borne  a  top,  but 
which  did  so  no  longer;  two  cane-bottomed  chairs 
with  rickety  arms ;  and,  seated  in  one  thereof,  a  man.l 
The  latter  looked  up  as  the  visitor  entered,  revealing 
an  unshaven  chin  and  a  pair  of  restless  black  eyes  over 
the  left  of  which  the  lid  drooped  appreciably.  He 
was  smoking  a  long  black  stogie,  and  scattered  upon 
his  vest  and  in  a  semicircle  surrounding  his  chair  was 


io8  Wheire  the  Trail  Divides 

a  sprinkling  of  white  ash  from  vanished  predecessors. 
Though  he  looked  up  when  the  other  entered,  and 
Landor  returned  the  scrutiny,  there  was  no  salutation, 
not  even  when,  without  form  of  invitation,  the  rancher 
dropped  into  the  vacant  seat  opposite  and  tossed  his 
broad  felt  hat  familiarly  amid  the  litter  of  the  desk. 
A.  moment  they  sat  so,  while  with  an  effort  the  new 
comer  recovered  his  breath. 

"  I  thought  I'd  find  you  here,  Chantry,"  he  initi 
ated  eventually.  "  I've  noticed  that  the  last  place  to 
look  for  a  doctor  is  in  the  proximity  of  a  funeral." 
He  fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  produced  a  stogie,  mate 
to  that  in  the  other's  mouth.  "  This  particular  cere 
mony,  by  the  way,  I  gather  from  the  appearance  of 
the  metropolis,  must  have  been  of  more  than  ordinary 
interest."  And  lighting  a  match  he  puffed  until  his 
face  was  concealed. 

"  Rather,"  laconically. 

"  Never  mind  the  details,"  Landor  prevented  hur 
riedly.  The  haze  had  cleared  somewhat,  and  he  ob 
served  his  taciturn  companion  appreciatively.  "  I 
left  Mary  up  with  Jim  Burton's  wife,  and  I  think  she 
can  be  trusted  to  attend  to  such  little  matters." 

Chantry  smoked  on  without  comment,  but  his  rest 
less  black  eyes  were  observing  the  other  shrewdly. 
Not  without  result  had  the  two  men  known  each  other 
these  five  years. 

"  It's  a  great  convenience,  this  having  women  in 
the  family,"  commented  Landor  impersonally.  "  It's 
better  than  a  daily  paper,  any  time."  Again  the  de- 


iTKe  Skeleton  within  the  Closet        109 

liberate,  appreciative  look.  "  You  haven't  decided 
yet  to  prove  the  fact  for  yourself,  have  you?  " 

Still  Chantry  smoked  in  silence,  waiting.  The  con 
fidence  that  had  brought  the  other  to  him  was  very 
near  now,  almost  apparent.  Only  too  well  he  knew 
the  signs — the  good-natured  satire  that  ill  concealed 
a  tolerance  broad  as  the  earth,  the  flow  of  trivialities 
that  cleared  the  way  later  of  non-essentials.  In  si 
lence  he  waited;  and,  as  he  had  known  the  moment 
that  big  figure  appeared  in  the  doorway,  it  came. 

Deliberately  Landor  removed  the  stogie  from  his 
lips,  as  deliberately  flicked  off  the  loose  ash  onto  the 
floor  at  his  side,  inspected  the  burning  tuck  critically. 

"  Supposing,"  he  introduced  baldly,  "  a  fellow — an 
old  fellow  like  myself,"  he  corrected  precisely,  "  was 
to  be  going  about  his  business  as  an  old  fellow  should, 
in  a  two-seated  surrey  with  canvas  curtains  such  as 
youVe  seen  me  drive  sometimes."  The  speaker 
paused  a  second  to  clear  his  throat.  "  Supposing  this 
old  fellow  was  just  riding  through  the  country  easy, 
taking  his  time  and  with  nothing  particular  on  his 
mind,  and  all  of  a  sudden  he  should  feel  as  though 
someone  had  sneaked  up  and  stuck  him  from  behind 
with  a  long,  sharp  knife.  Supposing  this  should  hap 
pen,  and,  although  it  was  the  middle  of  the  day,  every 
thing  should  go  black  as  night  and  he  should  wake 
up,  he  couldn't  tell  how  much  later,  and  find  himself 
all  heaped  up  in  the  bottom  of  the  rig  and  the  team 
stock  still  out  in  the  middle  of  the  prairie."  Deliber 
ately  as  it  had  left,  the  cigar  returned  to  the  speaker's 


1 10  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

lips,  was  puffed  hard  until  it  glowed  furiously;  and 
was  again  critically  examined.  "  Supposing  Cuch  a 
fat  old  fellow  as  myself  should  tell  you  this.  As  a 
doc  and  a  specialist,  would  you  think  there  was  some 
thing  worth  while  the  matter  with  him?  " 

Still  Chantry  did  not  speak,  but  the  burned-out 
stump  in  his  fingers  sought  a  remote  corner  of  the 
room,  consorted  with  a  goodly  collection  of  its  mates, 
and  the  drooping  eyelid  tightened. 

"  Supposing,"  continued  Landor,  "  the  thing 
should  happen  the  second  time,  and  the  old  fellow, 
who  wasn't  good  at  walking,  should  be  spilled  out  and 
have  to  foot  it  home  three  miles.  What  would  you 
think  then?  " 

One  of  Chantry's  hands,  itself  not  over  clean, 
dusted  the  ash  off  his  vest  absently. 

"  When  was  it,  this  last  time?  "  he  questioned. 

"  Yesterday."  impassively.  "  I'd  started  for  here 
to  meet  my  nephew  when  the  thing  struck  me;  and 
when  I  managed  to  get  home  I  sent  How  over  in 
stead."  He  halted  reminiscently.  "  I  wrote  the  boy 
to  come  a  couple  of  weeks  ago — that's  when  it  caught 
me  first." 

"  Your  nephew,  Craig,  knows  about  it,  does  he?  " 

Landor  puffed  anew  with  a  shade  of  embarrass 
ment. 

"  No.  I  thought  there  was  no  call  to  tell  the  folks 
at  the  ranch.  Mary'd  have  a  cat-fit  if  she  knew.  I 
told  them  I  got  out  to  shoot  at  a  coyote,  and  the 
bronchos  ran  away."  He  glanced  at  the  other  ex- 


The  Skeleton  within  the  Closet        ill 

planatorily,  deprecatingly.  "  Clayton  is  my  sister's 
son,  and  the  only  real  relative  I  have,  you  know.  I 
just  asked  him  to  come  on  general  principles." 

Chantry  made  no  comment.  Opening  a  drawer  of 
the  desk,  he  fumbled  amid  a  litter  of  articles  use 
ful  and  useless,  and,  extracting  a  battered  stethoscope, 
shifted  his  chair  forward  until  it  was  close  to  the  other 
and  stuck  the  tiny  tubes  to  his  ears.  Still  without 
comment  he  opened  the  rancher's  shirt,  applied  the  in 
strument,  listened,  shifted  it,  listened,  shifted  and 
listened  the  third  time — slid  his  chair  back  to  the 
former  position. 

"  What  else  do  you  know?  "  he  asked. 

Landor  buttoned  up  the  gap  in  his  shirt  methodi 
cally. 

"  Nothing,  except  that  the  thing  is  in  the  family. 
My  father  went  that  way  when  he  was  younger  than 
I  am,  and  his  father  the  same."  The  stogie  had  gone 
dead  in  his  fingers,  and  he  lit  a  fresh  one  steadily. 
"  I've  been  expecting  it  to  catch  up  with  me  for 
years." 

"  Your  father  died  of  it,  you  say?  " 

"  Yes;  on  Thanksgiving  Day."  The  big  rancher 
shifted  position,  and  in  sympathy  the  rickety  chair . 
groaned  dismally.  "  Dinner  was  waiting,  I  remem-; 
her,  a  regular  old-fashioned  New  England  dinner1 
with  a  stuffed  sucking  pig  and  a  big  turkey  with  his 
drumsticks  in  the  air.  Mother  and  Frances — that's 
my  sister — were  waiting,  and  they  sent  me  running  to 
call  father.  He  was  a  lawyer,  and  a  great  hand  to 


ii2  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

shut  himself  up  and  work.  I  was  starved  hungry,  and 
I  remember  I  hot-footed  it  proper  upstairs  to  his  den 
and  threw  open  the  door."  Puff !  puff !  went  the  big 
stogie.  "  An  Irish  plasterer  with  seven  kids  ate  that 
turkey,  I  recollect,"  he  completed,  "  and  I've  never 
kept  Thanksgiving  from  that  day  to  this." 

"  And  your  grandfather?  "  unemotionally. 

"  Just  the  same.  He  was  a  preacher,  and  the 
choir  was  singing  the  opening  anthem  at  the  time." 

The  doctor  threw  one  thin  leg  over  the  other  and 
stared  impassively  out  the  single  window.  It  faced 
the  main  street  of  the  town. 

"  The  doings  are  over  for  this  time,  I  fancy,"  he 
digressed  evenly.  "  I  see  a  row  of  bronchos  tied 
down  in  front  of  Red's  place." 

Landor  did  not  look  around. 

"  Mary  and  Mrs.  Burton  will  count  them,  never 
fear,"  he  recalled  in  mock  sarcasm.  "  What  I  want 
to  know  is  your  opinion." 

"  In  my  opinion  there's  nothing  to  be  done,"  said 
Chantry. 

Landor  shifted  again,  and  again  the  chair  groaned 
in  mortal  agony. 

"  I  know  that.  What  I  mean  is  how  long  is  it 

liable  to  be  before "  he  halted  and  jerked  his 

thumb  over  his  shoulder — "  before  Bob  and  the  rest 
will  be  doing  that  to  me?  " 

Chantry's  gaze  left  the  window,  met  the  shrewd 
grey  eyes  beneath  the  other's  drooping  lids. 

"  It  may  be  a  day  and  it  may  be  ten  years,"  he  said. 


The  Skeleton  within  the  Closet        113 

Unconsciously  Landor  settled  deeper  into  his  seat. 
His  jaws  closed  tight  on  the  stump  of  the  stogie. 
Unwaveringly  he  returned  the  other's  gaze. 

"  You  have  a  more  definite  idea  than  that,  though," 
he  pressed.  "  Tell  me,  and  let's  have  it  over  with." 

For  five  seconds  Chantry  did  not  speak;  but  the 
restless  black  eyes  bored  the  other  through  and 
through,  at  first  impersonally,  as,  scalpel  in  hand,  he 
would  have  studied  a  patient  before  the  first  incision 
in  a  major  operation;  then,  as  against  the  other's  will, 
a  great  drop  of  sweat  gathered  on  the  broad  forehead, 
personally,  intimately. 

"  Yes,  my  opinion  is  more  definite  than  that,"  he 
corroborated  evenly.  He  did  not  suggest  that  he  was 
sorry  to  say  what  he  was  about  to  say,  did  not  qualify 
in  advance  by  intimating  that  his  prognosis  might  be 
wrong.  "  I  think  the  next  attack  will  be  the  last. 
Moreover,  I  believe  it  will  come  soon,  very  soon." 
Impassively  as  he  had  spoken,  he  produced  a  book  of 
rice  paper  from  his  pocket  and  a  rubber  pouch  of 
tobacco.  The  long  fingers  were  skilful,  and  a  ciga 
rette  came  into  being  as  under  a  machine.  Without 
another  word  he  lit  a  match  and  waited  until  the  flame 
was  well  up  on  the  wood.  Of  a  sudden  a  great  cloud 
of  kindly  smoke  separated  him  from  the  other. 

With  an  effort  the  big  rancher  lifted  in  his  seat, 
passed  his  sleeve  across  his  forehead  clumsily. 

"  Thank  you,  Chantry."  He  cleared  his  throat 
raspingly.  "  As  I  said,  I  expected  this;  that's  why  I 
came  to  see  you  to-day."  For  the  second  time  his 


H4  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

cigar  was  dead,  but  he  did  not  light  it  again.  There 
was  no  need  of  subterfuge  now.  "  I  want  you  to  do 
me  a  favour.' *  He  looked  at  the  other  steadily 
through  the  diminishing  haze.  "  Will  you  promise 
me?" 

"  No,"  said  Chantry. 

Landor  stared  as  one  who  could  not  believe  his 
ears. 

"  No !  "  he  interrogated. 

"  I  said  so." 

A  trace  of  colour  appeared  in  the  rancher's  mottled 
cheeks  as,  with  an  effort,  he  got  to  his  feet. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  then  for  disturbing  you,"  he 
said  coldly.  "  I  was  labouring  under  the  delusion  that 
you  were  a  friend." 

The  brief  career  of  the  cigarette  was  ended. 
Chantry's  long  fingers  had  locked  over  his  knee.  He 
did  not  move. 

"  Sit  down,  please,"  he  said.  "  It  is  precisely  be 
cause  I  am  your  friend  that  I  will  not  promise." 

Landor  halted,  a  question  in  every  line  of  his  face. 

"  I  think  I  fail  to  understand,"  he  groped.  "  I 
suppose  I'm  dense." 

"  No,  you're  merely  transparent.  You  were  going 
to  ask  the  one  thing  I  can't  promise  you." 

Landor  stared,  in  mystified  uncertainty. 
'  "  Please  sit  down.     You  were  going  to  ask  me  to 
take  charge  of  your  affairs  if  anything  was  to  happen. 
Is  it  not  so?  " 

"  Yes.     But  how  in  the  world " 


The  Skeleton  within  the  Closet        115 

"  Don't  ask  it  then,  please,"  swiftly.  He  ignored 
the  other's  suggestion.  "  Get  someone  else,  someone 
you've  known  for  a  long  time." 

"  I've  known  you  for  a  long  time — five  years." 

"  Or  leave  everything  in  your  wife's  hands." 
Again  Chantry  scouted  the  obvious.  "  If  there 
should  be  need  she  could  get  a  lawyer  from  the 
city " 

"Lawyer  nothing!"  refuted  Landor.  "That's 
just  what  I  wish  to  avoid.  Mary  or  the  girl,  either 
one,  have  about  as  much  idea  of  taking  care  of  them 
selves  as  they  have  of  speaking  Chinese.  They'd  be 
on  the  county  inside  a  year,  with  no  one  interested 
to  look  out  for  them." 

"  But  How " 

"  He's  as  bad.  He  can  ride  a  broncho,  or  stalk  a 
sandhill  crane  where  there  isn't  cover  to  hide  your 
hat,  or  manage  cattle,  or  stretch  out  in  the  sun  arid 

dream ;  but  business He  wouldn't  know  a  bank 

cheque  if  he  saw  one;  and,  what's  worse,  he  doesn't 
want  to  know." 

"  Craig,  then,  your  nephew "  It  was  not 

natural  for  Chantry  to  be  perfunctory,  and  he  halted. 

For  a  moment  the  big  rancher  was  silent.  In  his 
lap  his  fingers  met  unconsciously,  tip  to  tip,  in  the  in 
stinctive  habit  of  age. 

"  I  anticipated  that,"  he  said  wearily.  "  I  realise 
it's  the  obvious  thing  to  do.  I  never  adopted  How 
as  I  did  the  girl — I  was  willing  to,  but  he  didn't  sefr 
the  use — and  so  Craig's  the  only  man  kin  I  have.'* 


n6  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

The  life  and  magnetism,  usually  so  noticeable  in  Lan- 
dor's  great  figure,  had  vanished.  It  was  merely  an 
old  man  facing  the  end  who  settled  listlessly  into  his 
seat.  "  I  had  big  hopes  of  the  boy.  I  hadn't  seen 
him  since  he  was  a  youngster,  and  Frances,  while  she 
lived,  was  always  bragging  about  his  doings.  That's 
why  I  sent  for  him."  Pat,  pat  went  the  big  fingers 
in  his  lap  against  each  other.  "  I've  always  felt  that 
if  worst  came  to  worst  the  women  folks  would  have 
someone  practical  to  rely  on;  but  somehow,  when  I 
saw  him  last  night,  from  what  he  said  and  what  he 
didn't  say,  from  the  way  he  acted  and  the  way  he  ex 
plained — what  happened  here  last  evening " 

The  speaker  caught  himself.  A  trace  of  the  old 
shrewdness  crept  into  the  grey  eyes  as  he  inspected  his 
companion  steadily.  "  I  know  How  pretty  well,  and 
when  someone  intimates  to  me  that  he  is  a  grand-stand 
player,  or  goes  out  of  his  way  to  pick  a  quarrel,  or 
meddles  with  someone  else's  affairs — • — "  Again  the 
big  man  caught  himself.  The  scrutiny  became  al 
most  a  petition.  "  I  cut  you  off  short  about  what 
went  on  here  yesterday,"  he  digressed.  "  I  didn't 
want  to  hear.  I  guess  I  was  afraid  to  hear.  It's 
been  foolish,  I  know,  but  I've  depended  a  good  deal 
upon  the  boy,  and  I'm  afraid  he's  going  to  be  a — 
disappointment." 

With  the  old  machine-like  precision  Chantry  rolled 
another  cigarette,  lit  it,  sent  a  great  cloud  of  smoke 
tumbling  up  toward  the  ceiling.  That  was  all. 

"  You  see  for  yourself  how  it  is/'  said  the  rancher. 


The  Skeleton  within  the  Closet        117 

"  I  wouldn't  ask  you  again  if  there  was  anyone  else 
I  could  go  to;  but  there  isn't.  Maybe  I'm  only  bor 
rowing  trouble,  maybe  there  won't  be  anything  for 
you  or  anyone  to  do;  but  it  would  be  a  big  load  off 
my  mind  to  know  that  if  anything  should  hap 
pen- "  He  halted  abruptly.  It  was  not  easy  for 

this  man  to  discuss  his  trouble,  even  to  a  friend. 
"  It  isn't  such  a  big  thing  I'm  asking,"  he  hurried. 
"  I'm  sure  if  positions  were  reversed  and  you  were  to 

request  me " 

"  I  know  you  would.     I  realise  I  seem  ungrateful. 

I "     Of  a  sudden,  interrupting,  Chantry  arose 

precipitately:  a  thin,  ungainly  figure  in  shiny,  thread 
bare  broadcloth,  exotic  to  the  point  of  caricature. 
Unconsciously  he  started  pacing  back  and  forth  across 
the  room,  restlessly,  almost  fiercely.  Never  in  the 
years  he  had  previously  known  the  man  had  Landor 
seen  him  so,  seen  him  other  than  the  impassive,  almost 
forbidding  practitioner  of  a  minute  ago.  For  the 
time  being  his  own  trouble  was  forgotten  in  surprise, 
and  he  stared  at  the  transformation  almost  unbeliev 
ingly.  Back  and  forth,  back  and  forth  went  the  thin, 
ungainly  shape,  the  ill-laid  floor  creaking  as  he 
I  moved,  paused  at  last  before  the  single  dust-stained 
window,  stood  like  a  silhouette  looking  out  over  the 
desolate  town.  Watching,  Landor  shifted  uncom 
fortably  in  his  seat.  Once  he  cleared  his  throat  as  if 
to  speak.  An  instinct  told  him  he  should  say  some 
thing;  but  he  was  in  the  dark  absolutely,  and  words 
would  not  come.  Reaching  over  to  the  desk  he  took 


Ii8  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

up  his  broad  felt  hat  and  sat  twirling  it  in  his  fingers, 
waiting. 

As  suddenly  as  he  had  arisen  Chantry  returned, 
resumed  his  seat.  His  face  had  grown  noticeably 
pale,  and  his  left  eyelid  drooped  even  more  than 
normally. 

"  I  feel  I  owe  you  an  apology,"  he  said  swiftly. 
"  In  a  way  weVe  been  friends,  and  as  you  say,  it's 
not  a  big  thing  you  ask  of  me;  but  nevertheless  I 
can't  grant  it.  Please  don't  ask  me." 

The  hat  in  Landor's  hands  became  still,  signifi 
cantly  still. 

"  I  admit  I  don't  understand,"  he  accepted,  "  but 
of  course  if  you  feel  that  way,  I  shall  not  ask  you 
again."  Unconsciously  a  trace  of  the  former  stiff 
ness  returned  to  his  manner  as  he  arose  heavily.  "  I 
think  I'd  better  be  going."  His  mouth  twitched  in 
an  effort  at  pleasantry.  "  Mary'll  be  dying  to  give 
me  the  details." 

Chantry  did  not  smile,  did  not  again  ask  the  other 
to  resume  his  seat.  Instead,  he  himself  arose,  stood 
facing  his  guest  squarely. 

"  I  feel  that  I  owe  you  an  explanation  as  well," 
he  said  repressedly.  "  Would  you  like  to  hear  ?  " 

"  Yes — if  you  don't  mind.  If  you'd  prefer  not  to, 
however " 

"  No,  I'd  rather  you — understood  than  to  go  that 
way."  The  doctor  cleared  his  throat  in  the  manner 
of  one  who  smokes  overmuch.  "  We  all  have  our 
skeleton  hid  away  somewhere,  I  suppose.  At  least  I 


The  Skeleton  within  the  Closet        119 

have  mine,  and  it  keeps  bobbing  out  at  times  like 

this  when  I  most  wish "  He  caught  himself,  met 

his  companion's  questioning  look  fairly.  "  Haven't 
you  wondered  why  I  ever  came  here;  why,  having 
come,  I  remain?  "  he  queried  suddenly.  "  You  know 
that  I  barely  make  enough  to  live,  that  sometimes  I 
don't  have  a  case  a  week.  Did  it  never  occur  to  you 
that  there  was  something  peculiar  about  it  all?  " 

"Peculiar?"  The  hat  in  the  rancher's  hand 
started  revolving  again.  He  had,  indeed,  thought 
of  it  before,  thought  of  it  tolerantly,  with  a  vague 
sense  of  commiseration — an  attitude  very  similar  to 
that  with  which  the  uninitiated  observe  a  player  at 
golf;  but  that  there  might  be  another,  a  sinister 
meaning 

"  If  it  hasn't  occurred  to  you  before,  doesn't  it 
seem  peculiar,  now  that  you  consider  it?  "  The  ques 
tion  came  swiftly,  tensely,  with  a  significance  there 
was  no  misunderstanding.  "  Tell  me,  please." 

"Yes,  perhaps;  but " 

"  But  you  do  see,  though,"  relentlessly.  "  You 
can't  help  but  see."  The  speaker  started  anew  the 
restless,  aimless  pace.  "The  country  is  full  of  us; 
all  new  countries  are."  He  was  still  speaking  hur 
riedly,  tensely,  as  we  tell  of  a  murder  or  a  ghastly 
tragedy;  something  which  in  duty  we  must  confide, 
but  which  we  hasten  to  have  over.  "  It's  easier  to 
get  here  than  to  Mexico  or  to  Canada,  and  until  the 

country  is  settled,  until  people  begin  to  suspect " 

He  halted  suddenly  opposite  the  other,  his  face 


I2O  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

deathly  pale,  deathly  tortured.  "  In  God's  name, 
don't  you  understand  now?"  he  questioned  passion 
ately.  "  Must  I  tell  you  in  so  many  words  why  I 
refused,  why  I  don't  dare  do  anything  else  but 
refuse?" 

"  No,  you  don't  need  to  tell  me."  Absently,  un 
consciously,  the  rancher  produced  a  red  bandana  hand 
kerchief  and  wiped  his  face;  then  thrust  it  back  into 
his  pocket.  "  I  think  I  understand  at  last."  His 
eyes  had  dropped  and  he  did  not  raise  them  again  to 
his  companion.  "  I'm  sorry,  very  sorry,  that  I  asked 
you;  sorry  most  of  all  that "  He  halted  diffi 
dently,  his  great  hands  hanging  loose  at  his  side,  his 
broad  shoulders  drooping  wearily.  He  was  not  glib 
of  speech,  at  best,  and  this  second  blow  was  hard  to 
bear.  A  full  half  minute  he  stood  so,  hesitant, 
searching  for  words;  then  heavily,  clumsily,  he  turned, 
started  for  the  door.  "  I  really  must  be  going,"  he 
concluded. 

Chantry  did  not  ask  him  to  stay,  made  no  motion  to 
prevent  his  going.  Tense,  motionless,  he  stood 
where  he  had  last  paused,  waited  in  silence  until  the 
visitor's  hand  was  upon  the  knob. 

"  Good-bye  Landor,"  he  said  then  simply. 

Not  the  words  themselves,  but  something  in  the' 
tone  caused  the  rancher  to  halt,  to  look  back. 

"  Good-day,  you  mean,  rather,"  he  corrected. 

"  No,  good-bye.     You  will  not  see  me  again." 

"  You  don't  mean " 

"  No.     I'm  too  much  of  a  coward  for  that,  or  I 


The  Skeleton  within  the  Closet        121 
should  have  done  so  long  ago.     I  merely  mean  I'll 


move  on  to-morrow." 


Face  to  face  the  two  men  tood  staring  at  each 
other.  Seconds  drifted  by.  It  was  the  doctor  who 
spoke  at  last. 

"  God  knows  that  if  I  could,  I'd  change  with  you 
even  now,  Landor,"  he  said  repressedly.  "  I'd 
change  with  you  gladly."  A  moment  he  stood  so, 
tense  as  a  wire  drawn  to  the  point  of  breaking, 
ghastly  tense;  then  of  a  sudden  he  went  lax.  In 
stinctively  his  fingers  sought  his  pockets,  and  there 
where  he  stood  he  started  swiftly  to  roll  a  cigarette. 

"  Go,  please,"  he  requested.     "  Good-bye." 


Chapter  IX 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  WILD 

EIGHT  miles  out  on  the  prairie,  out  of  sight  of  the 
Buffalo  Butte  ranch  house — save  for  a  scattering  herd 
of  grazing  cattle  in  the  distance,  and  a  hobbled  mouse- 
coloured  broncho  feeding  near  at  hand,  out  of  sight 
of  every  living  thing — a  man  lay  stretched  full  length 
upon  the  ground.  It  was  the  time  of  day  that  Lan- 
dor  had  tried  the  door  of  Bob  Manning's  store,  and 
the  broad  brim  of  the  man's  hat  was  pulled  far  for 
ward  to  keep  the  glitter  from  his  eyes.  Under  his 
head  was  a  rolled-up  blanket;  an  Indian  blanket  that 
even  so  showed  against  the  brown  earth  in  a  blot  of 
glaring  colour.  His  hands  were  deep  in  his  pockets; 
his  moccasined  feet  were  crossed.  At  first  sight,  an 
observer  would  have  thought  him  asleep ;  but  he  was 
not  asleep.  The  black  eyes  that  looked  forth  motion 
less  from  beneath  the  hat  brim,  that  apparently  never 
for  an  instant  left  that  scattering  blot  where,  dis 
torted,  fantastic  from  distance  and  through  the  curl 
ing  heat  waves  the  herd  grazed,  were  very  wide 
awake  indeed.  They  were  not  even  drowsy  or  off 
guard.  They  were  merely  passive,  absolutely  pas 
sive.  The  whole  body  was  passive,  motionless,  re 
laxed  in  every  muscle  and  every  nerve;  and  therein 
lay  the  marvel — to  all  save  the  thousandth  human  ia 

122 


The  Voice  of  the  Wild  123 

this  restless  age,  the  impossibility.  To  be  awake  and 
still  motionless,  to  do  absolutely  nothing,  not  even 
sleep — seemingly  the  simplest  feat  in  life,  it  is  one  of 
the  most  difficult.  A  wild  thing  can  do  it,  all  wild 
things  when  need  is  sufficient;  but  man,  modern 

man Here  and  there  one  retains  the  faculty,  as 

here  and  there  one  worships  another  God  than 
wealth ;  but  here  and  there  only.  Yet  it  was  such  an 
one  that  lay  alone  out  there  on  the  Dakota  prairie 
that  October  day;  one  who,  as  Craig  had  said,  hinted 
unfortunately  of  comic  opera,  but  who  never,  even  in 
remotest  conception,  fancied  that  comic  opera  existed, 
a  dreamer  and  yet,  notwithstanding,  a  doer,  an  In 
dian,  and  still  not  an  Indian;  Ma-wa-cha-sa  by  name. 

With  the  approach  of  midday  a  light  wind  had 
arisen,  and  now,  wandering  northward,  it  tugged  at 
the  pony's  long,  shaggy  mane  and  tail,  set  each  indi 
vidual  hair  of  the  little  beast  vibrating  in  unjustified 
ferocity;  and,  drifting  aimlessly  on,  stirred  the  brittle 
grass  stalks  at  the  man's  feet  with  the  muffled  crack 
ling  of  a  far-distant  prairie  fire.  The  herd,  a  great 
machine  cutting  clean  every  foot  of  the  sun-cured 
grass  in  its  path,  moved  on  and  on,  reached  a  low 
spot  in  the  gently  rolling  country,  and  passed  slowly 
from  view ;  then,  still  moving  forward,  took  shape  on 
the  summit  of  the  next  rise,  more  distinct  than  before. 

Time  passed  as  the  man  lay  there,  time  that  to 
another  would  have  been  interminable,  that  to  him 
was  apparently  unnoted.  Gradually,  as  the  full  heat 
of  the  day  approached,  the  breeze  became  stronger, 


124  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

set  the  heat  waves  dancing  to  swifter  measure,  sang 
audibly  in  the  listener's  ears  its  siren  song  of  prairie 
and  of  peace.  The  broncho,  its  appetite  temporarily 
satisfied,  lay  down  fair  in  its  tracks,  groaned  lazily  in 
the  action,  and  shut  its  eyes.  It  was  the  rest  time  of 
the  wild,  and  the  same  instinct  appealed  to  the  leader 
of  the  distant  herd.  Down  it  went  where  it  stood 
as  the  pony  had  done,  disappeared  absolutely  from 
view.  A  moment  later  another  followed,  and 
another,  and  another.  It  was  almost  uncanny,  there 
in  the  fantastic  glimmer,  that  disappearance.  In  the 
space  of  minutes,  look  where  one  would,  the  horizon 
was  blank.  Where  the  herd  had  been  there  was 
nothing,  not  even  a  blot.  It  was  as  the  desert,  and 
the  vanished  herd  a  mirage.  It  was  like  the  far 
northland  tight  in  the  grip  of  winter,  like  the  ocean 
at  night.  It  was  the  Dakota  frontier  at  midday. 

Again  time  passed  and,  motionless  as  at  first,  wide 
eyed,  the  man  lay  looking  out.  The  pony  was  sound 
asleep  now.  Its  nostrils  widened  and  narrowed  rhyth 
mically  and  it  snored  at  intervals.  Save  for  this 
and  the  soft  crackle  of  the  grass  and  the  aeolian  song 
of  the  wind  the  earth  was  still;  still  as  death;  so  still 
that,  indescribably  soft  as  it  was  immeasurably  dis 
tant,  the  man  detected  of  a  sudden  against  it  a  new 
sound.  But  he  did  not  stir.  The  black  eyes  looked 
out  motionless  as  at  first.  He  merely  waited  a 
minute,  two — and  it  came  again;  a  bit  louder  this 
time,  more  distinct,  unmistakable. 

This  time  the  listener  moved.    Deftly,  swiftly,  he 


The  Voice  of  the  WiFd  125 

unrolled  the  gaudy  blanket,  spread  it  thin  upon  the 
ground,  covered  it  completely  with  his  body.  In 
lieu  of  a  pillow  his  arms  crossed  under  his  head,  and, 
leaning  back,  the  hat  brim  still  shading  his  eyes,  he 
lay  gazing  up  into  the  sky,  motionless  as  a  prairie 
boulder. 

Again  the  sound  was  repeated;  not  a  single  note, 
but  a  medley,  a  chorus.  It  was  still  faint,  still  im 
measurable  as  to  distance;  but  nearer  than  before  and 
approaching  closer  second  by  second.  Not  from  the 
earth  did  it  come,  but  from  the  air.  Not  by  any 
stretch  of  the  imagination  was  it  an  earthly  sound,  but 
aerial.  It  was  an  alien  note  and  still  it  was  not  alien. 
There  upon  the  silent  earth  with  its  sunshine  and  its 
illimitable  distances,  it  seemed  very  much  a  part  of  the 
whole.  Its  keynote  was  the  keynote  of  the  time  and 
place,  its  message  was  their  message,  the  thrill  it  bore 
to  the  listener  the  thrill  of  the  whole.  It  was  not  a 
musical  call,  that  steadily  approaching  sound.  No  hu 
man  being  has  ever  been  able  to  locate  it  in  pitch  or 
metre;  yet  to  such  as  the  listening  man  upon  the 
ground,  to  those  who  have  heard  it  year  by  year,  it 
is  nevertheless  the  sweetest,  most  insistent  of  music. 
Beside  it  there  is  no  other  note  which  will  compare, 
none  other  which  even  approaches  its  appeal.  It  is 
the  spirit  of  the  wild,  of  magnificent  distances,  of  free 
dom  impersonate.  It  is  to-day,  it  was  then ;  for  the 
sound  that  the  man  heard  drawing  nearer  and  nearer 
that  October  afternoon  was  the  swelling,  diminishing 
note  of  the  migrant  on  its  way  south,  of  the  grey 


126  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

Canada  honker  en  route  from  the  Arctic  Circle  to 
the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

"Honk!  honk!"  Sonorous,  elusive,  came  the 
sound.  It  was  within  a  half  mile  now,  and  there 
was  no  mistaking  the  destination,  the  intent  of  its 
makers.  "Honk!  honk!  honk!  honk !  "  from  many 
throats,  in  many  keys,  louder  and  louder,  confused 
as  children's  voices  at  play;  then  in  turn  diminishing, 
retreating.  Very  mystifying  to  one  who  did  not  urn 
derstand  would  have  been  that  augmenting,  lessening 
sound;  but  to  that  waiting  human  boulder  it  was  no 
mystery.  As  plainly  as  though  he  could  see,  he  knew 
every  movement  of  that  approaching  triangle.  As 
certainly  as  the  broncho  near  by  and  the  herd  in  the 
distance  had  responded  to  the  sunshine  and  the  time 
of  day,  he  knew  they  were  responding.  To  all  wild 
things  it  was  the  rest  hour,  and  to  those  a  half  mile 
high  in  the  air  as  inevitably  as  to  the  beast  on  earth 
instinct  had  said  "  halt."  They  were  still  going 
southward,  still  drawing  nearer  and  nearer;  but  it 
would  not  be  for  long.  Already  they  were  circling, 
descending,  searching  here  and  there  for  a  place  to 
alight,  to  rest.  Suspicious  even  here,  they  were 
taking  their  time;  but  distinct  now  amid  the  confusion 
was  the  sound  of  their  great  wings  against  the  denser 
air,  and  the  "  Honk!  honk!  honk!  "  was  a  continuous 
chatter. 

Circle  after  circle  made  the  flock.  Once  their 
noise  all  but  ceased,  and  the  listener  fancied  for  an 
instant  they  were  down,  but  in  a  moment  it  was 


The  Voice  of  the  Wild  127 

resumed  louder  than  before,  and  he  knew  they  were 
still  a-wing.  "Honk!  honk!  honk!  honk!  honk! 
honk !  "  They  were  very  near  indeed,  so  near  that 
the  sleeping  pony  was  aroused  at  the  clamour  and, 
lifting  its  head,  looked  about  curiously. 

"Honk!  honk!  honk!  Flap!  flap!  Swish!" 
Between  the  sun  and  the  watcher  there  fell  a  mov 
ing  shadow  and  another — :then  a  multitude.  The 
clamour  was  all-surrounding,  the  flap  of  great  wings 
a  continuous  beating,  the  whistle  of  air  like  that  in 
a  room  with  a  myriad  buzzing  electric  fans.  Tem 
porarily  the  prairie  breeze  was  lost;  swallowed  up  in 
the  greater  movement.  Surprised,  for  the  moment 
frightened,  the  broncho  sprang  to  his  feet — paused 
irresolute.  For  an  instant  the  sky  was  hid.  Over 
head,  to  right,  to  left,  all-obscuring,  was  nothing  but 
a  blot  of  great  grey  bodies,  of  wide  wings  lighter  on 
the  under  surface,  of  long,  curious  necks,  of  dangling 
feet;  then,  swiftly  as  it  had  come  it  passed;  the  sun 
shone  anew;  the  cloud  and  the  shadow  thereof,  going 
straight  in  the  face  of  the  wind,  wandered  on. 
"  Honk !  honk !  honk !  honk !  honk !  honk !  "  they  re 
peated;  but  it  was  the  voice  of  departure.  The  thing 
was  done.  There  on  the  level  earth,  fair  in  view,  they 
had  passed  overhead  within  twenty  feet  of  their  arch 
enemy,  man;  and  had  not  known.  Now  less  than  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away  they  were  circling  for  the  last 
time.  One  big  gander  was  already  down  and  stretch 
ing  his  long  neck  from  side  to  side.  Another,  with  a 
great  flapping  of  wings,  was  beside  him ;  and  another, 


128  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

and  another.  The  prairie  wind  carried  along  the 
sound  of  their  chatter;  but  it  was  subdued  now,  en 
tirely  different  from  the  clamour  of  a  bit  ago. 
Against  the  blue  of  the  sky  where  they  had  been  a 
blot  only,  the  curling,  dancing  heat  waves  arose. 
One  and  all  had  answered  the  siesta  call. 

Up  to  this  time  the  man  who  watched  had  not 
stirred.  As  they  had  gone  over,  the  wide-open  eyes 
had  stared  up  at  them;  but  not  in  the  twitching  of  a 
muscle  had  the  long  body  betrayed  him.  Not  even 
now  that  it  was  over  did  he  move.  Instead,  low  at 
first,  then  louder,  a  whistle  sounded.  The  pony, 
wide  awake  now,  was  grazing  contentedly;  but  he 
paused.  The  whistle  sounded  for  the  third  time,  and 
reluctantly  he  drew  near,  halted  obediently.  Then 
at  last  there  was  action.  With  one  motion  the  In 
dian  was  on  his  feet.  Swiftly  as  it  was  spread  the 
blanket  was  rolled  and  replaced  in  the  waterproof 
pouch  with  the  remnants  of  the  lunch  and  a  book  of 
odds  and  ends  which  he  carried  always  with  him.  The 
whole  was  strapped  to  the  pony's  bare  back.  As 
swiftly  the  hobble  was  removed  and,  not  a  minute 
from  the  time  the  last  bird  was  down,  the  man  and 
.the  beast,  the  latter  only  visible  from  the  direction 
,in  which  they  were  going,  were  moving  on  a  zigzag, 
circuitous  trail  toward  the  resting  yet  ever-watchful 
flock  before  them. 

On  they  went,  the  pony  first,  the  crouching  man 
beside,  his  body  even  with  the  pony's  front  legs,  his 
eyes  peering  through  the  wind-tossed  mane.  First 


The  Voice  of  the  Wild  129 

to  the  right,  then  to  the  left  they  tacked,  halting  at 
intervals,  as  a  pony  wandering  aimlessly  will  halt  now 
and  then  to  feed;  but  never  losing  the  general  direc 
tion,  always  bit  by  bit  drawing  nearer  and  nearer.  A 
half  hour  passed  by  and  in  it  they  covered  forty  rods 
• — half  the  distance.  Thirty  minutes  more  elapsed  and 
they  had  crossed  an  equal  portion  of  the  remaining 
space.  Then  it  was  they  halted  and  a  peculiar  thing 
happened. 

The  wind  had  gradually  risen  during  the  day, 
and  now,  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  was  blowing 
steadily.  Light  objects  unattached  move  easily  across 
the  level  prairie  at  this  time  of  year,  and  here  and 
there  under  its  touch  one  after  another  of  a  par 
ticular  kind  were  already  in  motion.  Fluffy,  un 
substantial  objects  they  were,  as  large  as  a  bushel 
,measure  and  rudely  circular.  Looking  out  over  the 
level  earth  often  a  half  dozen  at  a  time  were  visible, 
rolling  and  halting  and  rolling  again  on  an  endless 
journey  from  nowhere  to  nowhere.  They  were  the 
well-named  tumble  weeds  of  the  prairie;  as  distinctive 
as  the  resting  flock  of  late  autumn,  of  approaching 
winter.  One  of  these  it  was  now  that  came  tumbling 
in  lazily  from  the  south  and,  barely  missing  the  indif 
ferent  birds  themselves,  dawdled  languidly  on  toward 
the  pony  beyond.  On  it  came,  would  have  passed  to 
'the  right;  but,  under  an  impulse  he  in  no  way  under 
stood,  the  broncho  moved  to  intercept  it.  Fair  in 
its  path,  the  little  beast  would  still  have  shifted  to 
give  it  right  of  way,  for  the  weed  is  very  prickly; 


130  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

but  again  the  authority  he  did  not  question  held  him 
in  his  place,  and  the  three,  the  man,  the  horse,  and 
the  plant,  came  together.  Then  it  was  the  finale 
began,  the  real  test,  the  matching  of  human  cunning 
and  animal  watchfulness. 

Left  alone  there  upon  the  prairie,  the  indif 
ferent  broncho  resumed  its  feeding.  Away  from  it, 
foot  by  foot,  so  slowly  that  a  careful  observer  could 
barely  have  seen  it  stir,  moved  the  great  weed.  No 
animal  on  the  face  of  earth  save  man  himself  would 
have  been  suspicious  of  that  natural  blind;  even  he 
would  have  overlooked  it  had  he  not  by  chance  noted 
that  while  every  other  of  its  kind  was  moving  with 
the  wind,  it  slowly  but  surely  was  advancing  against 
it.  The  scene  where  the  drama  was  taking  place  was 
level  as  a  floor,  the  grazed  grass  that  covered  it 
scarcely  higher  than  a  man's  hand;  yet  from  in  front 
not  an  inch  of  the  Indian's  long  body  was  visible,  not 
a  sound  marked  its  advance.  In  comparison  with  its 
movement  time  passed  swiftly;  a  third  half  hour 
while  it  was  advancing  ten  rods.  Already  the  short 
autumn  afternoon  was  drawing  to  a  close.  The  sun 
was  no  longer  uncomfortably  hot.  The  heat  waves 
had  ceased  dancing.  In  sympathy  the  prairie  breeze, 
born  of  the  sun,  was  becoming  appreciably  milder. 
As  certainly  as  it  had  come,  the  brief  rest  period  was 
drawing  to  a  close. 

But  the  long  figure  that  gave  the  blind  motion 
showed  no  haste.  Inch  by  inch  it  advanced,  never 
still,  yet  never  hurrying.  The  great  unsuspicious 


The  Voice  of  the  Wild  131 

birds  were  very  near  now,  so  near  that  a  white 
hunter  would  have  lost  his  equanimity  in  anticipa 
tion.  Through  the  meshwork  of  the  blind  the 
stalker  counted  them.  Twenty-seven  there  were  to 
gether,  and  near  to  him  another,  a  sentinel.  He  was 
within  half  the  distance  of  a  city  block  of  the  latter, 
so  close  that  he  could  see  the  beady,  watchful  eyes, 
the  pencillings  of  the  plumage,  the  billowing  of 
feathers  as  the  long  neck  shifted  from  side  to  side. 
Verily  it  was  a  moment  to  make  a  sportsman's  blood 
leap — to  make  him  forget;  but  not  even  then  did 
the  Indian  show  a  sign  of  excitement,  not  for  a 
minute  did  the  lithe  body  cease  in  its  soundless  ser 
pentine  motion.  It  was  splendid,  that  patient,  stealthy 
approach,  splendid  in  its  mastery  of  the  still  hunt; 
but  beyond  this  it  was  more,  it  was  fearful.  Had  an 
observer  been  where  no  observer  was,  it  would  in 
evitably  have  carried  with  it  another  suggestion — 
the  possibilities  of  such  a  man  were  a  real  object,  one 
vital  to  his  life,  and  not  a  mere  pastime,  at  stake. 
What  would  this  patient,  tireless,  splendid  animal  do 
then?  What  if  another  man,  his  enemy,  were  the 
object,  the  quarry? 

The  rest  time  at  last  was  over.  Insidiously  into 
the  air  had  crept  a  suggestion  of  coolness,  of  ap 
proaching  night.  In  the  background  the  pony  ceased 
feeding,  stood  patiently  awaiting  the  return  of  its 
rider.  Far  in  the  distance,  the  herd,  a  darker  blot 
against  the  brown  earth,  were  once  more  upon  their 
feet.  The  flock,  that  heretofore  like  a  group  of 


132  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

barnyard  fowls  in  the  dust  and  the  sun  had  remained 
indolently  resting  and  preening  their  plumage,  grew 
alert.  One  after  the  other  they  began  wandering 
here  and  there  aimlessly,  restlessly.  The  subdued 
chatter  became  positive.  Two  great  ganders  meet 
ing  face  to  face  hissed  a  challenge.  Here  and  thene 
a  big  bird  spread  its  great  wings  tentatively,  and 
folded  them  again  with  distinct  reluctance.  The  cycle 
was  all  but  complete.  The  instinct  that  in  the  begin 
ning  had  bid  them  south,  that  had  for  this  brief  time 
sent  them  to  earth,  was  calling  again.  In  sympathy 
the  restless  head  of  the  sentinel  went  still.  Another 
minute,  another  second  even,  perhaps,  and  they  would 
be  gone.  Through  the  filmy  screen  the  stalker  saw 
it  all,  read  the  meaning.  He  had  ere  this  drawn  un 
believably  near.  Barely  the  width  of  a  narrow  street 
separated  him  from  the  main  flock — less  than  the 
breadth  of  a  goodly  sized  room  the  motionless  senti 
nel.  It  was  the  moment  for  action. 

And  action  followed.  Like  a  mighty  spring  the 
slim  muscular  body  contracted  in  its  length.  Toes 
and  fingers  dug  into  the  earth  like  a  sprinter  awaiting 
the  starting  pistol.  He  drew  a  long  breath.  Then 
of  a  sudden,  straight  over  the  now  useless  blind,  un 
expected,  startling  as  a  thunderclap  out  of  a  cloud 
less  sky,  directly  toward  the  nearest  bird  bounded  a 
tall  brown  figure,  silent  as  a  phantom.  For  a  second 
the  entire  flock  stared  in  dumb  paralytic  surprise; 
then  following  there  came  a  note  of  terror  from  eight 
and  twenty  throats  that  rose  as  one  voice,  that  over 


The  Voice  of  the  Wild  133' 

the  now  silent  prairie  could  have  been  heard  for  miles. 
It  was  the  signal  for  action,  for  escape,  and,  terror- 
mad,  they  broke  into  motion.  But  a  flock  of  great 
Canada  geese  cannot,  like  quail,  spring  directly 
a-wing.  They  must  first  gather  momentum.  This 
they  attempted  to  gain — in  its  accomplishment  all  but 
one  succeeded.  That  one,  the  leader,  the  sentinel, 
was  too  near.  Almost  before  that  first  note  of  terror 
had  left  his  throat  the  man  was  upon  him.  Ere  he 
could  rise  two  relentless  hands  had  fastened  upon  his 
beating  wings  and  held  him  prisoner.  Hissing,  strug 
gling,  he  put  up  the  best  fight  he  could;  but  it  was 
useless.  "  Honk !  honk !  honk !  honk !  honk !  honk !  " 
shrilled  the  flock  now  safe  in  the  air.  "  Honk !  honk ! 
honk!  "  as  with  wings  and  feet  they  climbed  into  the 
sky.  "Honk!  honk!  honk!"  softer  and  softer. 
"Honk!  honk!  honk!"  for  the  last  time,  faint  as 
an  echo;  and  they  were  gone.  Behind  them  the  hu 
man  and  the  wild  thing  his  prisoner  stood  staring 
at  each  other  alone. 

For  a  long,  long  time  neither  moved.  Its  first  des 
perate  effort  to  escape  past,  the  bird  ceased  to  struggle, 
stood  passive  in  its  place;  passive  as  the  man  himself 
had  remained  there  on  the  ground  a  few  hours  before. 
Its  long  neck  swayed  here  and  there  continuously, 
restlessly,  and  its  throat  was  a-throb;  but  no  muscle 
of  the  body  stirred.  It  had  made  its  fight — and  lost. 
For  the  time  being  resistance  was  fatuous,  and  it 
accepted  the  inevitable.  Silent  as  its  captor,  it 
awaited  the  move  of  the  conqueror.  It  would  resist 


134  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

again  when  the  move  came,  resist  to  the  last  ounce 
of  its  strength ;  but  until  then  in  instinctive  wisdom  it 
would  husband  its  energy. 

Yet  that  move  was  very  slow  in  coming.  It  was 
the  time  of  day  when  ordinarily  the  herder  collected 
his  drove  and  returned  toward  the  home  corral;  still 
he  showed  no  intention  of  haste.  The  broncho  was 
shaking  his  head  at  intervals  restlessly;  too  well 
trained  to  leave,  yet  impatient  as  a  hungry  child  for 
the  return — and  was  ignored.  For  the  time  being 
the  man  seemed  to  have  forgotten  all  external  con 
siderations.  Not  savagely  nor  cruelly,  but  with  a 
sort  of  fascination  he  stood  gazing  at  this  wild  thing 
in  his  power.  For  a  long,  long  time  he  did  nothing 
more,  merely  looked  at  it;  looked  admiringly,  inti 
mately.  No  trace  of  blood  hunger  was  in  his  face, 
no  lust  to  kill;  but  pure  appreciation — and  something 
more ;  something  that  made  the  two  almost  kin.  And 
they  were  much  alike;  almost  startlingly  alike.  Each 
was  graceful  in  every  movement,  in  every  line.  Each 
was  of  its  kind  physical  perfection.  Each  unmis* 
takably  bore  a  message  of  the  wild;  of  solitude-,  of 
magnificent  distances.  Each  was  a  part  of  its  set» 
ting ;  as  much  so  as  the  all-surrounding  silence.  Last 
of  all,  each  stood  for  one  quality  dominant,  one  desire 
overtowering  all  others;  and  that  was  freedom,  un 
qualified,  absolute. 

Long  as  it  was  they  stood  there  so,  the  bird  was 
true  to  its  instinct  of  passive  inaction.  It  was  the 
human  that  made  the  first  move.  Gently,  slowly, 


The  Voice  of  the  Wild  13.5 

one  hand  freed  itself,  stroked  the  silky  soft  plumage; 
stroked  it  intimately,  almost  lovingly — as  an  animal 
mother  caresses  its  young.  The  man  did  not  speak, 
made  no  sound,  merely  repeated  the  motion  again  and 
again.  Under  the  touch  the  restless  head  became 
still,  the  watchful  black  eyes  more  watchful.  That 
was  all.  Slowly  as  it  had  moved  before,  the  man's 
hand  shifted  anew,  passed  down,  down,  the  glossy 
throat  to  the  breast — paused  over  the  heart  of  the 
wild  thing.  There  it  remained,  and  for  the  first  time 
a  definite  expression  came  into  the  mask-like  face;  a 
look  of  pity,  of  genuine  contrition.  A  moment  the 
hand  lay  there ;  then,  childish  as  it  may  seem,  absurd, 
if  you  please,  the  man  spoke  aloud. 

''  You're  afraid  of  me,  deathly  afraid,  aren't  you, 
birdie?  "  he  queried  softly.  "  You  think  because  I'm 
bigger  than  you  and  a  cannibal,  I'm  going  to  kill 
you."  Kneeling,  he  looked  fair  into  the  black  eyes — 
deep,  mysterious  as  the  wild  itself.  "  You  think  this, 
and  still  you  don't  grovel,  don't  make  a  sound. 
You're  brave,  birdie,  braver  than  most  men."  He 
paused,  and  one  by  one  his  hands  loosened  their  grip. 
"  I'm  proud  of  you;  so  proud  that  I'm  going  to  say 
good-bye."  He  straightened  to  his  full  height.  Un 
consciously  his  arms  folded  across  his  chest.  "  Go, 
birdie;  you're  free." 

A  moment  longer  there  was  inaction.  Unbeliev 
ing,  still  a  captive,  the  great  bird  stood  there  motion 
less  as  before;  then  of  a  sudden  it  understood;  it  was 
free.  By  some  chance,  some  Providence,  this  great 


136  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

animal,  its  captor,  had  lost  the  mastery,  and  it  was 
free.  Simultaneously  with  the  knowledge  the  pent-up 
energy  of  the  last  minutes  went  active,  fairly  explo 
sive.  With  a  mighty  rush  it  was  away;  feet  and 
wings  beating  the  earth,  the  air.  Swifter  and  swifter 
it  went,  gaining  momentum  with  each  second.  It 
barely  touched  the  frost-brown  prairie;  it  cleared  it 
entirely,  it  rose,  rose,  with  mighty  sweeps  of  mighty 
wings.  Oh,  it  was  free !  free !  free  1  "  Honk  I 
honkl"  Free!  free!  "Honk!  honk!  honk!" 

Like  a  statue,  silent  again  as  death,  the  man 
watched  as  the  dark  spot  on  the  horizon  grew  dim 
mer  and  dimmer  until  it  faded  at  last  into  the  all- 
surrounding  brown. 


Chapter  X 

THE  CURSE   OF  THE   CONQUERED 

IT  was  late,  very  late  on  the  prairie,  when  How 
Landor  returned  that  evening.  The  herd  safely 
corralled  for  the  night,  he  rode  slowly  toward  the 
ranch  house,  and,  without  leaving  the  pony's  back, 
opened  and  closed  the  gate  of  the  barb  wire  fence 
surrounding  the  yard  and  approached  the  house. 
There  was  a  bright  light  in  the  living-room,  and, 
still  without  dismounting,  he  paused  before  the  un 
curtained  window  and  looked  in.  Mrs.  Landor,  look 
ing  even  more  faded  and  helpless  than  usual,  sat 
holding  her  hands  at  one  side  of  the  sheet-iron  heater, 
and  opposite  her,  his  feet  on  the  top  rim  of  the  stove, 
sat  Craig.  The  man  was  smoking  a  cigarette,  and 
even  through  the  tiny-paned  glass  the  air  of  the  room 
looked  blue.  Obviously  the  visitor  and  his  aunt  were 
not  finding  conversation  easy,  and  the  former  ap 
peared  distinctly  bored.  Neither  Landor  himself 
nor  the  girl  was  anywhere  visible,  and,  after  a 
moment,  the  spectator  moved  on  around  the  corner. 
The  dining-room  as  he  passed  was  dark,  likewise 
the  kitchen,  and  the  rider  made  the  complete  circuit 
of  the  house,  pausing  at  last  under  a  certain  window 
on  the  second  floor  facing  the  south.  It  was  the 


138  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

girl's  room,  and,  although  the  shade  was  drawn,  a 
dim  light  was  burning  behind.  For  perhaps  a  minute 
the  man  on  the  barebacked  broncho  hesitated,  looking 
up ;  then  rolling  his  wide-brimmed  hat  into  a  cylinder 
he  moved  very  close  to  the  weather-boarded  wall. 
The  building  was  low,  and,  by  stretching  a  bit,  the 
tip  of  the  roll  in  his  hand  reached  the  second  story. 
He  tapped  twice  on  the  bottom  of  the  pane. 

No  answer,  but  of  a  sudden  the  room  went  dark. 

Tap  !    tap  !    repeated  the  hat  brim  gently. 

Still  no  answer. 

Again  the  man  hesitated,  and,  the  night  air  being 
a  bit  frosty,  the  pony  stamped  impatiently. 

"  Bess,"  said  a  low  voice,  "  it  is  I,  How.  Won't 
you  tell  me  good-night?  " 

This  time  there  was  response.  The  curtain  lifted 
and  the  sash  was  opened ;  a  face  appeared,  very  white 
against  the  black  background. 

"  Good-night,  How,"  said  a  voice  obediently. 

The  man  settled  back  in  his  seat  and  the  sombrero 
was  unrolled. 

"Nothing  wrong,  is  there,  Bess?"  he  hesitated. 
"You're  not  sick?" 

"  No,  there's  nothing  wrong,"  monotonously. 
"  I'm  a  bit  tired,  is  all." 

For  a  long  minute  the  man  said  nothing,  merely 
sat  there,  his  black  head  bare  in  the  starlight,  looking 
up  at  her.  Repressed  human  that  he  was,  there 
seemed  to  him  nothing  now  to  say,  nothing  adequate. 
Meanwhile  the  pony  was  growing  more  and  more 


The  Curse  of  the  Conquered          139 

impatient.  A  tiny  hoof  beat  at  the  half-frozen 
ground  rhythmically. 

"  All  right,  then,  Bess,"  he  said  at  last.  "  You 
mustn't  sit  there  in  the  window.  It's  getting  chilly. 
Good-night." 

The  girl  drew  back  until  her  face  was  in  shadow. 

"  Good-night,"  she  echoed  for  the  second  time, 
and  the  shade  closed  as  before. 

For  five  minutes  longer  the  Indian  sat  as  he  was, 
bare  of  head,  motionless;  but  the  light  did  not  return 
nor  did  he  hear  a  sound,  and  at  last  he  rode  slowly 
out  the  gate  and  toward  his  own  quarters. 

The  place  where  he  lived  was  exactly  a  half  mile 
from  the  Buffalo  Butte  ranch  house,  and  due  north. 
Originally  a  one-room  shack,  grudgingly  built  accord 
ing  to  government  requirements  to  prove  up  on  a 
homestead,  it  had  recently  been  enlarged  by  the  addi 
tion  of  a  second  larger  room,  and  as  a  whole  the  place 
further  improved  by  the  building  of  a  sod  and 
weather-board  barn.  The  reason  for  this  was  ob 
vious,  to  one  acquainted  with  the  tenant's  habits  par 
ticularly  so.  Just  how  long  the  Indian  had  remained 
separate,  just  why  he  had  first  made  the  change, 
Landor  himself  could  hardly  have  told.  Suffice  it 
to  say  it  had  been  for  years,  and  in  all  that  time, 
even  in  the  coldest  weather,  the  voluntary  exile  had 
never  lived  under  a  roof.  Primitive  or  evolved  as 
it  might  be,  as  youth  and  as  man,  the  Indian  was  a 
tent-dweller.  Just  now  the  little  house  was  being 
fitted  up  for  occupancy,  How  himself  doing  it  at 


140  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

odd  moments  of  the  day  and  at  evenings;  but  as 
yet  he  still  lived,  as  always,  under  eight  by  ten  feet 
of  canvas  near  at  hand. 

A  lighted  tent  stands  out  very  distinctly  by  contrast 
against  a  dark  horizon,  and  almost  before  he  had 
left  the  ranch  house  yard  the  man  on  the  impatient 
mouse-coloured  broncho  knew  that  he  had  company; 
yet,  characteristic  in  his  every  action,  he  did  not  hurry. 
Methodically  he  put  up  the  pony  in  the  new  barn, 
fed  and  bedded  him  for  the  night.  From  the  ad 
joining  stall,  out  of  the  darkness,  there  came  a 
nasal  puppyish  whine  and  the  protest  of  a  straining 
chain.  Had  it  been  daylight,  an  observer  would 
have  seen  a  woolly  grey  ball  with  a  pointed  nose 
and  a  pair  of  sharp  eyes  tugging  at  the  end  of  that 
tether;  but  as  it  was,  two  gleaming  eyes,  very  close 
together,  were  all  that  were  vi-sible.  It  was  to  the 
owner  of  these  eyes  that  the  man  gave  the  scraps 
from  his  lunch  remaining  in  the  saddlebag.  For 
it,  as  for  the  pony,  he  made  a  bed;  then — though  the 
little  beast  was  only  a  grey  prairie  wolf,  it  was  a 
baby  and  lonely — he  knelt  down  and  for  a  moment 
laid  his  own  face  against  the  other's  softly  shaggy 
face. 

When,  a  bit  later,  he  arose  and  went  toward  the 
light  there  was  a  moist  spot  on  his  cheek  where 
a  rough  little  tongue  had  inscribed  its  affection. 

On  the  tent  wall  was  a  shadow  such  as  that  made 
by  a  big  man  with  his  back  to  the  light,  and  as  the 
newcomer  opened  the  flap  and  stepped  inside  the 


The  Curse  of  the  Conquered          141 

maker  of  the  shadow  roused  himself  in  the  manner  of 
one  whose  thoughts  had  been  far  away. 

"  You're  late  to-night,"  he  commented. 

"  Yes." 

Characteristic  of  the  two  men,  no  explanation  was 
offered  or  expected,  and  the  subject  dropped. 

There  was  a  small  soft-coal  stove  in  one  cornerj 
and  in  silence  the  Indian  threw  in  fresh  fuel.  The  lan 
tern  hanging  opposite  was  burning  low,  and,  turning 
it  higher,  he  shifted  the  tin  reflector  so  that  the  light 
would  play  on  the  scene  of  operations.  Leaving  the 
tent  for  a  moment,  he  returned  with  a  young  grouse, 
and,  dressing  it  skilfully,  put  it  in  a  skillet  to  fry. 
From  the  chest  where  he  had  been  sitting  he  produced 
a  couple  of  cold  boiled  potatoes  and  sliced  them  into 
the  opposite  side  of  the  same  pan.  He  did  not  hurry, 
he  rather  seemed  to  be  dawdling;  yet  almost  before 
the  observer  awoke  to  the  fact  that  supper  was  under 
preparation  a  tiny  folding  table  with  a  turkey  red 
cloth  was  set,  the  odour  of  coffee — cheap  coffee,  yet 
surprisingly  fragrant — was  in  the  air,  and  the  bird 
and  potatoes  were  temptingly  brown.  It  was  almost 
uncanny  the  way  this  man  accomplished  things.  Lan- 
dor  himself  never  ceased  to  marvel.  How  always 
seemed  unconscious  of  what  he  was  doing,  seemed 
always  thinking  of  something  else;  yet  he  never 
wasted  a  motion,  and  when  the  necessity  arose  the 
thing  required  was  done.  It  was  so  in  small  things. 
It  was  identical  in  large, 

Up  to  this  time,  since  that  first  perfunctory  greet- 


142  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

ing,  not  a  word  had  been  spoken.  Now,  the  meal 
complete,  its  maker  halted  hospitably. 

"  Better  join  me,"  he  invited  simply.  "  You  must 
have  had  an  early  supper.  I  noticed  the  kitchen  was 
dark  at  the  house.'* 

"  Yes.  I'm  not  hungry,  though."  The  big  man 
sank  lower  into  his  seat  wearily.  "  I'm  not  feeling 
very  well  to-night." 

In  silence  the  younger  man  sat  down  to  eat  alone. 
He  did  not  press  his  invitation,  he  did  not  express 
sympathy  at  the  other's  admission.  Either  would 
have  been  superfluous.  Instead  he  ate  with  the 
hearty  appetite  of  a  healthy  human,  and  thereafter, 
swiftly  and  methodically  as  he  had  prepared  the 
meal,  cleared  the  table  and  put  all  in  order.  Then 
at  last,  the  fire  replenished  and  a  couple  of  long 
haired  buffalo  robes  thrown  within  the  radius  of  its 
heat,  he  stretched  full  length  thereon  in  the  perfect 
contentment  of  one  whose  labor  for  the  day  is  done, 
and  awaited  the  something  he  knew  had  brought  the 
other  to  him  at  this  unusual  hour.  "  There's  a  pipe 
and  tobacco  in  the  drawer  of  the  little  table  at  your 
right,"  he  assisted. 

Landor  roused  with  a  trace  of  surprise. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  ever  smoked,"  he  com 
mented. 

"  I  don't,"  simply.  Again  there  was  no  sugges 
tion  of  the  superfluous,  the  obvious  explanation. 

Nervously,  almost  jerkily,  Landor  filled  the  brier 
bowl  and  pressed  the  brown  flakes  tight  with  his  little 


The  Curse  of  the  Conquered          143 

finger.  The  match  he  lit  crackled  explosively,  and  he 
started  at  the  unexpected  sound  as  one  whose  nerves 
were  on  edge.  The  pipe  aglow,  he  still  sat  for  a 
moment  puffing  hard. 

"  How,"  he  initiated  then  abruptly,  "  I  wish  you 
would  do  me  a  favour.  Will  you  promise  me?  " 

The  younger  man  did  not  hesitate,  did  not  ques 
tion.  "  If  in  my  power,  yes,  sir,"  he  said. 

That  was  all,  yet  better  than  a  complete  chapter 
it  told  the  relation  of  the  two  men;  the  unquestion 
ing  confidence  of  the  younger,  the  trace  of  almost 
patriarchal  respect  that  never  left  his  manner  when 
addressing  the  elder.  "  If  in  my  power,  yes,  sir." 

"  It  isn't  much  I'm  going  to  ask,"  continued  Lan- 
dor  hurriedly.  "  It's  simply  that  you  and  Bess  be 
married  at  once  instead  of  waiting  until  the  day  set." 
Puff,  puff  went  the  pipe  as  though  the  speaker  were 
uncertain  whether  or  no  to  say  more.  "  I  have  a 
particular  reason  for  wishing  it,"  he  completed 
inadequately. 

For  a  moment  the  Indian  hesitated;  but  even  then 
no  question  was  voiced;  there  was  no  probing  of  the 
confidence  the  other  preferred  not  to  give. 

"  I  will  speak  to  Bess  to-morrow  if  you  wish,"  he 
said. 

Landor  lit  another  match  absently  and  held  it  to 
the  already  glowing  bowl;  then  threw  it  away,  un 
conscious  of  what  he  had  done. 

"  Another  thing,"  he  introduced  hurriedly.  "  I'm 
pretty  strong  now,  but  nevertheless  I'm  getting  to  be 


144  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

an  old  man,  and  so  to-day  while  I  was  in  town  I  had 
Bob  Manning  witness  my  will.  I  know  it's  all  form, 
but  I  feel  better  to  have  things  settled."  With  forced 
matter  of  factness  he  knocked  the  burned  contents 
of  the  pipe  into  the  grate  and  filled  the  bowl  afresh. 
i"  Mary  isn't  used  to  having  any  responsibility,  so  I 
left  practically  everything  to  Bess.  I  know  that  if 
Anything  should  happen  to  me  you'd  take  care  of  her 
mother." 

No  answer,   though  Landor  waited  expectantly. 

"  I  don't  need  to  ask  your  promise  to  be  good  to 
Bess."  Very  different  from  his  usual  peremptory 
self  was  the  big  rancher  to-night,  very  obvious, 
pathetically  so,  his  effort  to  appear  natural.  "  I 
know  you'll  make  her  happy,  my  boy." 

Even  yet  there  was  no  response,  and  the  visitor 
shifted  uncomfortably.  As  well  as  he  knew  his  own 
name  he  knew  that  his  secret  was  secret  no  longer. 
Yet  with  the  instinct  of  the  wild  thing  that  hides 
itself  to  die  alone  he  avoided  direct  mention  of  the 
fact,  direct  wording  of  the  inevitable.  But  some 
thing  in  the  attitude  of  the  motionless  figure  before 
him  prevented  further  dissimulation.  Some  influ 
ence  urged  him  to  hasten  the  denouement  which  he 
knew  was  but  postponed.  With  an  effort  he  straight 
ened  in  his  seat  and  for  the  first  time  met  the  other's 
black  eyes  steadily. 

"I  did  right,  don't  you  think,  How?"  he  ques 
tioned  directly. 

"  Right,    perhaps;    I    don't    know."     A    pause. 


The  Curse  of  the  Conquered          145 

"  What  I  do  know  is  that  I'm  sorry  you  did  as  you 
did." 

"Sorry,  How?" 

"  Yes,  sir.     Very  sorry." 

"And  why?" 

No  answer. 

The  light  from  the  tin  reflector  had  been  playing 
full  upon  the  Indian's  face,  and  now,  rising,  he  shifted 
it  until  the  corner  by  the  stove  was  in  shadow. 

"  I  will  tell  you  why."  He  returned  to  his  place 
and  stretched  himself  as  before,  his  hands  locked 
beneath  his  head.  "  You  are  a  rich  man,  Mr.  Lan- 
dor,  and  Bess  is  human.  She  doesn't  know  what 
money  is  yet,  but  you  will  compel  her  to  learn.  From 
what  I  have  read  and  the  little  I  have  seen,  I  think 
she  would  be  happier  if  she  never  knew."  * 

For  the  third  time  Landor  filled  the  pipe  bowl  and 
lit  it  with  a  fragment  of  coal  from  the  grate. 

"  I  don't  see  why,  How,"  he  refuted. 

"  You  do,  though,  sir." 

"  No.     Tell  me." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  so  long  that  Landor 
fancied  the  other  would  not  answer;  then  of  a  sud 
den  he  found  the  intense  black  eyes  fixed  upon  him 
unshiftingly. 

"  The  reason  is  because  not  only  Bess  but  others 
are  human.  As  we  are  now  I  can  make  her 
happy,  very  happy.  I  know  it  because — I  love  her." 
He  paused,  and  into  the  tent  there  came  the  long- 
drawn-out  wail  of  the  baby  prisoner.  Silence  re- 


146  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

turned.  "  As  surely  as  that  little  wolf  is  lonely,  Bess 
will  know  the  trouble  money  brings  if  you  do  as  you 
intend.  Not  myself,  but  other  men  will  teach  her." 

Landor  was  not  smoking  now.  The  pipe  had 
gone  dead  in  his  fingers. 

"  Once  more  I  ask  why,  How?  " 

The  other's  eyes  did  not  shift,  nor  a  muscle  of  his 
body. 

"  Because  she  is  white  and  they  are  white,  and  I 
• — am  an  Indian. " 

At  last  it  had  come:  the  thing  Landor  had  tried 
to  avoid,  had  hitherto  succeeded  in  avoiding.  Yet 
face  to  face  the  big  man  could  ignore  it  no  longer. 
It  was  true,  as  true  as  human  nature;  and  he  knew 
it  was  true.  Other  men,  brothers  of  his  own  race, 
would  do  this  thing — as  they  would  do  anything  for 
money;  and  he,  Landor,  he  who  had  raised  her  from 
a  child,  who  had  adopted  her  as  his  own  daughter, 
he  it  was  who  would  make  it  possible ! 

Involuntarily  the  big  man  got  to  his  feet.  He  did 
not  attempt  to  move  about,  he  did  not  speak.  There, 
standing,  he  fought  himself  inch  by  inch;  battled 
against  the  knowledge  of  the  inevitable  that  had 
been  dogging  him  day  by  day,  hour  by  hour.  A 
long  time  he  stood  so,  his  great  hands  locked,  his 
face  toward  the  blank  tent  wall  opposite;  then  at 
last  he  turned. 

"  I  realise  what  you  mean,  How,"  he  said  swiftly, 
"  and  understand  the  way  you  feel.  God  knows  I 
wish  it  were  different,  wish  I  did  not  believe  what 


The  Curse  of  the  Conquered          147 

you  say  true;  but  things  are  as  they  are.  What  we 
have  to  do  now  is  the  best  thing  possible  under  the 
circumstances."  He  sat  down  in  the  chair  again 
heavily,  his  hands  still  locked  in  his  lap.  "  If  wrong 
>has  been  done  I  am  to  blame,  I  myself,  in  raising  you 
and  Bess  together.  I  might  have  known  that  it  was 
inevitable,  you  two  here  alone  to  care  for  each  other ; 
but  I  was  poor  then,  and  I  never  thought  that 
Bess " 

"  Mr.  Landor " 

The  big  man  halted.  For  the  first  time  he  realised 
the  admission  of  what  he  had  been  saying,  the  in 
evitable  implication — and  he  was  silent.  For  sec 
onds  likewise  the  Indian  was  still;  but  in  them  he 
was  looking  at  the  other  steadily,  in  a  way  he  had 
never  looked  at  him  before,  with  an  intensity  that 
was  haunting. 

"  So  you,  too,  feel  that  way,"  he  said  at  last  slowly. 
There  was  no  anger  in  the  voice,  nor  menace ;  merely 
wonder,  and,  yes,  pathos — terrible,  gripping  pathos. 
"  I  knew  that  everyone  else  felt  so — everyone  except 
Bess  herself;  but  you — you — I  did  not  know  that 
before,  Mr.  Landor." 

Mute  as  before  the  big  man  sat  motionless,  lis 
tening.  From  the  bottom  of  his  soul  he  wished  to 
say  something  in  refutation,  in  self-defence;  but  he 
could  not.  There  was  nothing  to  say. 

"  No,  I  never  even  dreamed  of  such  a  thing,"  went 
on  the  repressed  voice,  "  not  even  when  at  first  you 
were  slow  to  give  your  consent  to  our  marriage.  I 


148  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

fancied  it  was  merely  because  you  thought  me  im 
practical,  because  I  cared  nothing  for  a  life  that  was 
different,  was  not  my  own.  Nor  again,  even  a  bit 
ago  when  you  asked  me  to  promise — what  I  did 
promise — I  did  not  suspicion  such  a  thing.  I  thought 
it  a  compliment,  the  sincerest  compliment  I  had  ever 
received  in  my  life:  the  fact  that  you  should  trust  me 
so,  with  all  that  was  dear  to  you  in  the  world."  Just 
perceptibly  he  halted,  but  his  eyes  did  not  leave  the 
white  man's  face.  "  But  I  see  it  all  now.  I  was  blind 
before,  but  I  see  at  last.  You  are  like  the  rest,  like 
everyone  with  a  white  skin.  The  fact  that  weVe  lived 
together  for  half  a  generation  makes  no  difference. 
You're  square,  square  to  the  end.  You  even  like  me 
in  a  way.  You've  given  your  word  and  won't  go 
back  on  it ;  but  nevertheless  you're  sorry.  Even  while 
you  urge  us  to  marry,  to  have  the  thing  over,  to  have 
a  responsibility  off  your  mind,  you  feel  you  are  sacri 
ficing  Bess  to  an  inferior."  He  halted  for  a  second, 
and  even  at  this  time  Landor  was  conscious  that  it 
was  infinitely  the  longest  speech  he  had  ever  heard 
the  man  make.  "  I  don't  blame  you,  Mr.  Landor; 
you  can't  help  it;  it's  the  instinct  of  your  race;  but 

nevertheless,  nevertheless " 

The  voice  halted  abruptly,  repressedly.  The  in 
tense  black  eyes  were  of  a  sudden  looking  directly 
past  the  other,  straight  up  at  the  roof  of  the  tent. 
No  power  on  earth  could  have  made  him  complete 
that  sentence,  made  him  admit  the  deadly  hurt  it  sug 
gested.  From  the  unusual  confidence  of  a  bit  ago 


The  Curse  of  the  Conquered          149 

he  merely  lapsed  into  the  normal,  his  own  repressed, 
impassive  self.  Yet  as  plainly  as  though  he  had 
spoken  Landor  recognised  the  difference,  realised  as 
well  that  while  outwardly  there  would  be  no  change, 
from  this  moment  on  so  long  as  they  both  lived  the 
confidence  of  the  Indian  would  be  as  dead  to  him 
as  though  he  had  ceased  to  exist.  He  had  seen  it 
happen  before.  He  knew  the  signs.  With  the  knowl 
edge  for  the  first  time  in  the  years  they  two  had  lived 
together  he  realised  how  much  after  all  he  had  grown 
to  depend  upon  this  laconic  human,  how  much  he 
had  lost.  It  was  the  last  drop  in  his  cup  of  bitter 
ness,  the  crushing  straw.  His  great  ungainly  body 
dropped  forward  until  his  face  was  hid  in  his  hands. 
On  the  walls  of  the  tent  a  distorted,  exaggerated 
shadow  marked  the  movement  of  his  shoulders  as 
they  rose  and  fell  with  his  deep,  irregular  breathing. 
Again  silence  fell  upon  them,  silence  that  by  word 
of  mouth  was  to  remain  unbroken.  In  it  from  the 
stable  there  sounded  again  the  wail  of  the  lonely 
baby,  and  a  moment  later,  muffled,  echo-like  from 
the  distance,  the  answering  call  of  one  of  its  own  kind 
fre^upon  the  infinite  prairie;  but  apparently  neither 
man  noticed,  neither  man  cared — and  the  silence  re 
turned.  Long  minutes  passed.  The  fire  in  the 
stove  burned  lower  and  lower.  Into  the  tent  crept 
a  suggestion  of  the  coolness  without.  Then  at  last 
Landor  roused.  Without  a  word  he  put  on  his  hat 
and  buttoned  his  coat.  His  fingers  were  unnaturally 
clumsy  and  he  found  the  task  difficult.  Just  for  a 


150  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

moment  he  had  a  wild  idea  of  asking  the  other's  for 
giveness,  of  attempting  an  explanation  where  none 
was  possible;  but  he  realised  it  would  but  make  mat 
ters  worse,  and  desisted.  The  Indian,  too,  had 
arisen,  and  repressedly  courteous,  stood  ready  to  open 
the  flap  of  the  tent  for  the  other  to  pass.  For  a 
moment,  the  last  moment  they  were  ever  to  see  each 
other  alive,  they  stood  so,  each  waiting  for  the  other 
to  speak,  each  knowing  that  the  other  would  not 
speak;  then  heavily,  shufflingly,  Landor  took  a  step 
forward. 

The  tent  curtain  opened  before  him,  was  held 
back  while  he  passed;  then  closed  again,  shutting 
him  out. 

For  five  long  dragging  minutes  after  he  was  gone 
the  other  man  remained  as  he  stood,  motionless  as 
a  bronze  statue,  as  an  inanimate  thing.  The  kero 
sene  lamp  was  burning  low  now  and  sputtered  dis 
mally;  but  he  did  not  notice,  did  not  hear.  For  the 
third  time,  tremulous  against  the  background  of  night 
and  of  silence,  came  the  wail  of  the  lonely  little  cap 
tive.  It  was  a  kindred  sound,  an  appealing  sound, 
and  at  last  the  figure  responded.  Hatless  as  he  was 
he  left  the  tent,  returned  a  minute  later  with  some 
thing  tagging  at  his  heels :  a  woolly,  grey,  bright-eyed 
something,  happy  as  a  puppy  at  release  and  com 
panionship.  Methodically  the  man  banked  the  coal 
fire  and  put  out  the  lantern.  He  did  not  make  a 
bed,  did  not  undress.  Instead,  weary  as  Landor 
himself,  he  dropped  amid  the  buffalo  robes,  lay  still. 


The  Curse  of  the  Conquered          151 

"  Sniff,  sniff,"  sounded  a  pointed,  inquiring  nose  in 
the  darkness,  "  sniff,  sniff,  sniff."  There  was  no  re 
sponse,  and  becoming  bolder,  its  owner  crept  close  to 
the  face  of  the  silent  being  on  the  ground,  squirmed 
a  moment  contentedly — and  likewise  became  still. 


Chapter  XI 

THE  TREE  OF  KNOWLEDGE 

THE  darkness  that  precedes  morning  had  the  prairie 
tountry  in  its  grip  when  Howard,  the  gaunt  foreman 
of  the  B.  B.  ranch,  drew  rein  before  the  silent  tent, 
and  with  the  butt  end  of  his  quirt  tapped  on  the  heavy 
canvas. 

"Wake  up,"  he  called  laconically.  "You're 
wanted  at  the  ranch  house." 

Echo-like,  startling  in  its  suddenness,  an  inverted 
V  opened  in  the  white  wall  and  in  it,  fully  dressed, 
vigilant,  appeared  the  figure  of  its  owner. 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  a  voice  insistently. 

The  Texan  stared  in  unconcealed  surprise. 

"  In  Heaven's  name,  man,  don't  you  ever  sleep  ?  " 
he  drawled.  "  The  boss  is  dead,"  he  added  baldly 
at  second  thought. 

The  black  V  closed  again,  and  distinct  in  outline 
against  the  white  background  appeared  the  silhouette 
of  the  listener.  His  arms  were  folded  across  his 
chest  in  a  way  that  was  characteristic,  and  his  moc- 
casined  feet  were  set  close  together.  He  spoke  no 
word  of  surprise,  asked  no  question;  merely  stood 
there  in  the  silence  and  the  semi-darkness  waiting. 

The  foreman  was  by  no  means  a  responsive  soul, 
yet,  watching,  there  instinctively  crept  over  him  a 

152 


The  Tree  of  Knowledge  153 

feeling  akin  to  awe  of  this  other  silent  human.  There 
was  the  mystery  of  death  itself  in  that  motionless, 
listening  shadow. 

"  It  was  just  before  I  came  over  to  tell  you  that 
Mrs.  Landor  raised  the  house,"  he  explained.  "  She 
woke  up  in  the  night  and  found  the  boss  so — and  cold 
ilready."  Unconsciously  his  voice  had  lowered. 
u  She  screamed  like  a  mad  woman,  and  ran  down- 
Stairs  in  her  nightdress,  chattering  so  we  could 
hardly  understand  her."  He  slapped  at  his  baggy 
chaperajos  with  his  quirt  absently.  "  That's  all  I 
know,  except  there's  no  particular  use  to  hurry. 
It's  all  over  now,  and  he  never  knew  what  took 
him." 

Silently  as  before  the  aperture  in  the  tent  opened 
and  closed  and  the  listener  disappeared;  to  reappear 
a  moment  later  with  a  curled-up  woolly  bundle  in 
his  arms.  Without  a  word  of  explanation  he  strode 
toward  the  barn,  leaving  Howard  staring  after  him 
uncertainly.  Listening,  the  latter  heard  a  suppressed 
little  puppyish  protest,  as  though  its  maker  were  very 
sleepy,  a  moment  later  the  soft,  recognising  whinny 
of  a  broncho,  and  then,  startlingly  sudden  as  the 
figure  had  first  emerged  from  the  tent,  it  appeared 
again,  mounted,  by  his  side. 

For  half  the  distance  to  the  ranch  house  not  a 
word  was  said;  then  of  a  sudden  Howard  drew  his 
horse  to  a  walk  meaningly. 

"  I  suppose  it's  none  of  my  business,"  he  com 
mented  without  preface,  "  but  unless  I'm  badly  mis- 


154  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

taken  there'll  be  hell  to  pay  around  the  Buffalo 
Butte  now." 

Again,  as  at  the  tent  door,  his  companion  made 
no  answer;  merely  waited  for  the  something  he  knew 
was  on  the  other's  mind.  The  east  was  beginning 
to  lighten  now,  and  against  the  reddening  sky  his 
dark  face  appeared  almost  pale. 

Howard  shifted  in  his  saddle  seat  and  inspected 
the  ground  at  his  right  as  intently  as  though  there 
might  be  jewels  scattered  about. 

"  The  boss's  relative — Craig,"  he  added,  "  has 
taken  possession  there  as  completely  as  if  he'd  owned 
the  place  a  lifetime  instead  of  been  a  visitor  two 
days."  The  long  moustaches  that  gave  the  man's 
face  an  unmeritedly  ferocious  expression  lifted  char 
acteristically.  "  I  like  you,  How,  or  I  wouldn't  stick 
my  bill  into  your  affairs.  That  boy  is  going  to  make 
you  trouble,  take  my  word  for  it." 

Even  then  there  was  no  response;  but  the  overseer 
did  not  seem  surprised  or  offended.  Instead,  the 
load  he  had  to  impart  off  his  mind,  his  manner  indi 
cated  distinct  relief.  But  one  thing  more  was  neces 
sary  to  his  material  comfort — and  that  solace  was  at 
hand.  Taking  a  great  bite  of  plug  tobacco,  a  chew 
that  swelled  one  of  his  thin  cheeks  like  a  wen, 
he  lapsed  into  his  normal  attitude  of  disinterested 
reverie. 

The  ranch  house  was  lighted  from  top  to  bottom, 
abnormally  brilliant,  and  as  the  Indian  entered  the 
odour  of  kerosene  was  strong  in  his  nostrils.  In  the 


The  Tree  of  Knowledge  155 

kitchen  as  he  passed  through  were  the  other  two 
herders.  They  sat  side  by  side  in  uncomfortable 
inaction,  their  big  sombreros  in  their  hands;  and  with 
the  suppression  of  those  unused  to  death  nodded  him 
silent  recognition.  The  dining-room  was  empty, 
likewise  the  living-room ;  but  as  he  mounted  the  stairs 
he  could  hear  the  muffled  catch  of  a  woman's  sobs, 
and  above  them,  intermittent,  authoritative,  the  voice 
of  a  man  speaking.  His  moccasined  feet  gave  no 
warning,  and  even  after  he  had  entered  the  room 
where  the  dead  man  lay  none  of  the  three  who  were 
already  present  knew  that  he  was  there. 

Just  within  the  doorway  he  paused  and  looked 
about  him.  In  one  corner  of  the  room,  well  away 
from  the  bed,  sat  Mary  Landor.  She  did  not  look 
up  as  he  entered,  apparently  did  not  see  him,  did  not 
see  anything.  The  first  wild  passion  of  grief  past, 
she  had  lapsed  into  a  sort  of  passive  lethargy.  Her 
fingers  kept  picking  at  the  edge  of  the  loose  dressing 
sack  she  had  put  on,  and  now  and  then  her  thin 
lips  trembled;  but  that  was  all. 

Only  a  glance  the  newcomer  gave  her,  then  his 
eyes  shifted  to  the  bed;  shifted  and  halted  and,  un 
consciously  as  he  had  done  when  Howard  first  broke 
the  news,  his  feet  came  close  together  and  his  arms 
folded  across  his  chest  in  characteristic,  all-observing 
attention.  Not  a  muscle  moved,  he  scarcely  seemed 
to  breathe.  He  merely  watched. 

And  this  was  what  he  saw :  The  shape  of  a  dead 
man  lying  as  at  first  beneath  the  covers;  only  now 


156  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

the  sheet  had  been  raised  until  the  face  was  hid. 
Beside  it,  stretched  out  in  abandon  as  she  had  thrown 
herself  down,  her  head  all  but  buried  from  view,  was 
the  girl  Bess.  She  was  sobbing  as  though  her  heart 
would  break:  sobbing  as  though  unconscious  of  an- 
f  other  human  being  in  the  world.  Above  her,  lean 
ing  over  her,  was  the  form  of  a  man:  Craig.  His 
uncle  had  brought  his  belongings  from  the  tiny  town 
the  day  before,  and  even  at  this  time  his  linen  and 
cravat  were  immaculate.  He  was  looking  down  at 
the  little  woman  before  him,  looking  and  hesitating 
as  one  choosing  between  good  and  evil. 

"  Bess,"  he  was  saying,  "  you  must  not.  You'll 
make  yourself  sick.  Besides,  it's  nearly  morning  and 
people  will  be  coming.  Don't  do  so;  please!  " 

No  answer,  no  indication  that  he  had  been  heard; 
only  the  muffled,  racking,  piteous  sobs. 

"Bess,"  insistently,  "Bess!  Listen  to  me.  I 
can't  have  you  do  so.  Uncle  Landor  wouldn't  like 
it,  I  know  he  wouldn't.  He'd  be  sorry  if  he  knew. 
Be  brave,  girlie.  You're  not  alone  yet." 

Still  no  response  of  word  or  of  action.  Still  the 
dainty,  curved  shoulders  trembled  and  were  quiet  and 
trembled  again. 

The  man's  hand  dropped  to  the  coverlet  beside 
him.  His  face  went  very  close. 

"  Cousin  Bess,"  he  repeated  for  the  last  time 
tensely,  "  I  can't  let  you  cry  so.  I  won't.  I  care 
for  you  too  much,  little  girl ;  infinitely  too  much.  It 
hurts  me  to  have  you  feel  so  terribly,  hurts  me  more 


The  Tree  of  Knowledge  157 

than  I  can  tell."  Just  for  a  moment  he  hesitated, 
and  like  an  inexperienced  gambler  his  face  went  tense 
and  white.  "  You  must  listen  to  me,  Elizabeth, 
Uncle  has  gone,  but  there  are  others  who  will  take 
care  of  you.  I  myself  will  take  care  of  you,  girlie. 
Listen,  Bess,  for  there's  something  I  must  tell  you, 
something  you  make  me  tell  you  now."  Swiftly,  un 
hesitatingly,  he  leaned  still  nearer;  with  one  motion 
his  arm  passed  about  her  and  he  clasped  her  close, 
so  close  she  could  not  struggle,  could  not  prevent. 
"  I  love  you,  little  girl.  Though  I've  only  known 
you  two  days,  I  love  you.  That  is  what  you  compel 
me  to  tell  you.  This  is  why  it  hurts  me  to  have  you 
cry  so.  I  love  you,  Bess;  I  love  you!  " 

This  is  what,  there  in  that  tiny  unplastered  bed 
room  next  the  roof,  came  to  pass  that  October  morn 
ing.  Just  so  the  four  living  actors  remained  for  a  sec 
ond  while  the  first  light  of  day  sifted  in  through  the 
tiny-paned  windows;  the  elderly  woman  unconscious 
of  the  drama  enacting  before  her  eyes,  unconscious  of 
anything,  her  thin  fingers  still  picking  at  the  edge  of 
her  sack;  the  motionless  watcher  rigid  as  a  casting  in 
bronze:  the  passionate  gambling  stranger  man  hold 
ing  the  girl  to  him  tightly,  so  tightly  she  could  not 
but  remain  so,  passive;  then  came  the  climax.  Of  a 
sudden  the  image  that  had  been  lifeless  resolved  itself 
into  a  man.  Muscles  played  here  and  there  visibly  be 
neath  the  close-fitting  flannel  shirt  he  wore.  Swiftly, 
yet  still  without  a  sound,  one  moccasined  foot  moved 
forward,  and  its  mate — and  again  the  first.  Un- 


158  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

expected  as  death  itself  would  have  been  at  that 
instant,  Craig  felt  two  mighty  irresistible  hands  close 
on  his  shoulders;  close  with  a  grip  that  all  but  para 
lysed.  Irresistibly  again  he  felt  himself  turned  about, 
put  upon  his  feet;  realised  of  a  sudden,  too  suddenly 
and  unexpectedly  even  to  admit  of  a  cry,  that  the  girl 
was  free,  that,  not  a  foot  distant,  he  was  staring  into 
the  face  of  the  one  being  on  earth  from  whom  he  had 
most  to  fear.  All  this  in  seconds;  then,  mercifully 
intervening,  a  Providence  itself,  the  tense  wet  face 
of  the  girl  came  between.  The  first  sound  that  had 
been  spoken  came  to  his  ears. 

"  How!  In  God's  name  don't!  He  didn't  mean 
any  harm;  I  know  he  didn't.  Forgive  him,  How; 
please,  please,"  and  repeated:  "Forgive  him — for 
my  sake." 

•  •  •  •  • 

The  lamps  had  long  been  out,  but  the  odour  of 
low-test  kerosene  still  hung  about  the  closed  living- 
room  where  the  same  four  people  sat  in  council.  No 
effort  had  as  yet  been  made  to  put  the  place  to  rights, 
and  in  consequence  it  was  stuffy  and  disordered  and 
proportionately  depressing.  The  mound  of  cigarette 
stumps  which  Craig  had  builded  the  night  before  lay 
unsightly  and  evil  of  odour  on  the  table.  The  faded 
rag  carpet  was  littered  with  the  tobacco  he  had  scat 
tered.  His  gaudy  riding  blouse  and  cap  reposed  on 
a  lounge  in  one  corner.  His  ulster  and  hat,  which  he 
had  unpacked  the  last  thing  before  retiring,  lay  across 
a  chair.  Look  where  one  might  about  the  place, 


The  Tree  of  Knowledge  159 

there  were  evidences  of  his  presence,  of  his  dominant 
inhabitance.  Already  after  two  days'  residence,  as 
Howard  had  said,  he  had  taken  complete  possession. 
Whosoever  may  have  possessed  the  voice  of  authority 
in  the  past,  concerning  the  future  there  was  to  be  no 
doubt.  That  voice  was  speaking  now. 

"  To  be  sure  I  shall  take  him  East,"  it  said.  "  His 
father  is  buried  in  Boston,  and  his  grandfather,  and 
his  grandfather's  father."  The  voice  halted,  low 
ered.  "  Besides,  my  mother  and  his  other  sister,  who 
died  years  and  years  ago,  are  both  there."  Obviously, 
too  obviously,  he  turned  away  until  his  face  was  hid. 
Into  the  voice  there  crept  a  throb  that  was  almost 
convincing.  "  They'd  all  want  him  with  them,  I'm 
sure,  even  though  he  wouldn't  have  cared;  and  I  think 
he  would.  He  mentioned  it  the  first  night  I  came, 

but  of  course  I  didn't  realise — then "  The 

voice  was  silent. 

As  hours  before  in  the  room  above,  Mary  Landor 
showed  no  emotion,  did  not  speak.  Not  even  yet  had 
her  sorrow-numbed  brain  awakened,  had  she  grasped 
the  full  meaning  of  the  thing  which  had  happened  to 
her.  Later,  indefinitely  later,  the  knowledge  would 
come,  and  with  it  the  hour  of  reckoning;  but  for  the 
present  she  was  a  mere  puppet  in  the  play.  Craig, 
the  dominant,  had  told  her  to  dress,  and  she  had 
dressed.  He  had  summoned  her  to  the  council,  and 
she  had  obeyed.  But  it  was  not  to  her  now  that  he 
had  spoken,  nor  to  the  other  man  who,  silent  as  he 
had  entered,  stood  erect,  his  arms  folded,  listening. 


160  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

To  yet  another  he  had  spoken.  She  it  was,  Eliza* 
beth,  who  answered. 

"  But  to  take  him  clear  back  there,  away  from 
everyone  who  cares  for  him  or  ever  has  cared  for 
him."  The  soft  lower  lip  was  becoming  unmanage 
able  and  the  girl  halted,  winking  hard.  "  It  seems 
cruel." 

"  Not  if  he  would  have  wished  it,  Bess," 

"  But  if  he  hadn't  wished  it ** 

"  I  repeat  I  think  he  would."  Craig  shifted  until 
his  back  was  toward  the  other  man.  "  I  think  that 
his  mentioning  the  possibility  at  all,  the  first  night  I 
came,  proves  that  he  wished  it." 

"  Perhaps.  ...  I  don't  know."  ...  A 
long  pause;  then  of  a  sudden  the  girl  arose  and 
walked  to  the  window.  But  subterfuge  was  from 
her  a  thing  apart,  and  she  merely  leaned  her  face 
against  the  casement.  "  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it," 
she  trembled. 

Craig  moved  half  way  toward  her;  then  remem 
bered,  and  halted. 

4  Yes,  let's  decide,  and  not  talk  about  it,"  he  re 
turned  swiftly.  "  You  agree  with  me  after  all,  don't 
,you,  Bess?" 

The  girl  did  not  look  up. 

"  Don't  ask  me.  You  and  How  and  Aunt  Mary 
decide."  With  an  effort  she  resumed  her  former 
place;  but  even  yet  she  did  not  glance  at  him.. 
"  Wherever  you  take  him  I  shall  go  along,  is  all." 

Swiftly,  exuberantly  swiftly,  Craig  took  her  up. 


The  Tree  of  Knowledge  161 

"  Yes,  I  think  he  would  have  liked  that.  I  ... 
You  agree  with  me  too,  don't  you,  Aunt  Mary?  " 

The  older  woman  started  at  sound  of  her 
name,  looked  up  vacantly.  "What?"  she  queried 
absently. 

Craig  repeated  the  question  perfunctorily. 

'  Yes,  he  was  always  good  to  me,  very  good  to) 
me,"  she  returned  monotonously. 

In  sympathy,  the  girl's  brown  eyes  moistened  anew;1 
but  Craig  turned  away  almost  impatiently.  "  Let's 
consider  it  settled  then,"  he  said. 

For  the  first  time  the  girl  glanced  up ;  but  it  was  not 
at  Craig  that  she  looked.  It  was  at  that  other  figure 
in  the  background,  the  figure  that  not  once  through  it 
all  had  stirred  or  made  a  sound.  "  What  shall  we 
do,  How?  what  ought  we  to  do?  "  she  asked. 

For  ten  seconds  there  was  silence ;  but  not  even  then 
did  Craig  recognise  the  other's  presence  by  so  much  as 
a  glance.  Only  the  look  of  exultation  left  his  face, 
and  over  his  blue  eyes  the  lids  tightened  perceptibly. 

"  Don't  consider  what  I  think,  Bess,"  said  a  low 
voice  at  last.  "  Do  what  you  feel  is  right." 

It  was  the  white  man  who  had  decided,  but  it  was, 
another  who  brought  the  decision  to  pass.  How 
Landor,  the  Indian,  it  was  who,  alone  in  the  dreary 
chamber  beneath  the  roof,  laid  the  dead  man  out 
decently,  and  for  five  dragging  minutes  thereafter, 
before  the  others  had  come,  stood  like  a  statue  gazing 
down  at  the  kindly,  heavy  face,  with  a  look  on  his  own 


162  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

that  no  living  human  had  ever  seen  or  would  ever  see. 
How  Landor,  the  Indian,  it  was  who,  again  alone  in 
the  surrey,  with  the  closely  drawn  canvas  curtains, 
drove  all  that  day  and  half  the  night  to  the  nearest 
undertaker  at  the  railroad  terminus  beyond  the  river, 
seventy-five  miles  away.  How  Landor,  the  Indian, 
again  it  was  who,  with  a  change  of  horses,  but  barely 
a  pause  to  eat,  started  straight  back  on  the  return 
trail,  and  ere  it  was  again  light  was  within  the  limits 
of  Coyote  Centre,  knocking  at  the  door  of  Mattie 
Burton,  the  one  woman  friend  of  Mary  Landor  he 
knew.  How  Landor  it  was  once  more  who,  before 
twenty-four  hours  from  the  time  he  had  left  had 
passed,  with  the  unwilling  visitor  by  his  side,  re-en 
tered  the  Buffalo  Butte  ranch  yard.  Last  of  all, 
How  Landor,  the  Indian,  it  was  who  faced  the  old 
surrey  once  more  to  the  east,  and  with  still  another 
team  before  him  and  a  cold  lunch  in  his  pocket,  sat 
waiting  within  the  hour  to  take  the  departing  ones 
away. 

Through  it  all  he  scarcely  spoke  a  word,  not  one 
that  was  superfluous.  What  he  was  thinking  of  no 
one  but  he  himself  knew.  That  he  had  expected 
what  had  taken  place  in  his  absence,  his  bringing 
Mrs.  Burton  proved.  At  last  realisation  had  come, 
and  Mary  Landor  was  paying  the  price  of  the  brief 
lethargic  respite;  paying  it  with  usury,  paying  it  with 
the  helpless  abandon  of  the  dependent.  The  dreary 
weather-coloured  ranch  house  was  not  a  pleasant  place 
to  be  in  that  day.  Craig  left  it  thankfully,  with  a 


The  Tree  of  Knowledge  163 

shrug  of  the  shoulders  beneath  the  box-fitting  top 
coat,  as  the  door  closed  behind  him.  The  other 
passenger,  the  one  who  should  have  left  also  and  did 

not,  the  girl  Elizabeth 

•  How  Landor  it  was  again  who,  when  minutes  of 
waiting  had  passed,  minutes  wherein  Craig  consumed 
cigarettes  successively,  tied  the  team  and  disappeared 
within  doors.  What  he  said  none  save  the  girl  her 
self  knew;  but  when  he  returned  he  was  not  alone,  and 
though  the  eyes  of  his  companion  were  red,  there  was 
in  her  manner  no  longer  a  trace  of  hesitation. 

The  two  passengers  comfortably  muffled  in  the 
robes  of  the  rear  seat,  the  driver  buttoned  the  curtains 
tight  about  them  methodically.  The  day  was  very 
still,  not  a  sound  came  to  them  from  over  the  prairie, 
and  of  a  sudden,  startlingly  clear,  from  the  house 
itself  there  came  an  interruption:  the  piteous,  hope 
less  wail  of  a  woman  in  a  paroxysm  of  grief,  and  a 
moment  later  the  voice  of  another  woman  in  unemo 
tional,  comforting  monotone. 

"  How,"  said  a  choking,  answering  voice,  "  I  can't 
go  after  all,  I  can't!  " 

Within  the  carriage,  safe  from  observation,  her 
companion  took  her  hand  authoritatively,  pressed  it 
within  his  own. 

"  Yes,  you  can,  Bess,"  he  said  low.  "  Aunt  Mary 
will  have  to  fight  it  out  for  herself.  You  couldn't 
help  her  any  by  staying." 

But  already  the  Indian  was  gone.  Within  the 
house  as  before,  even  keen-eared  Mattie  Burton  failed 


164  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

to  catch  what  he  said.  Had  she  done  so,  she  would 
have  been  no  wiser,  for  apparently  that  moment  a 
miracle  took  place.  Of  a  sudden,  the  hysterical 
voice  was  silent.  The  man  spoke  again  and — the 
watcher  stared  in  pure  unbelief — her  own  hand  in 
her  companion's  hand,  Mary  Landor  followed  him 
obediently  out  to  the  surrey. 

u  We  haven't  any  time  to  lose,"  he  said  evenly,  as 
he  drew  back  the  flap  of  the  curtain.  "  You'd  better 
say  good-bye  now." 

"Mother!" 

"  Bessie,  girl.     Bessie !  " 

Again  within  the  ranch  house,  Mary  Landor  sank 
into  a  seat  with  the  utter  weariness  of  a  somnambulist 
awakened.  Fully  a  half  minute  the  Indian  stood 
looking  down  at  her.  For  one  of  the  few  times  in 
his  life  his  manner  indicated  indecision.  His  long 
arms  hung  loose  from  his  shoulders.  His  wide- 
brimmed  hat  hid  his  eyes.  The  watcher  thought  he 
looked  very,  very  weary.  Then  of  a  sudden  he 
roused.  Bending  over — did  he  foresee  what  was  to 
come,  that  moment? — he  did  something  he  had  never 
done  before. 

"  Good-bye,  mother,"  he  said,  and  kissed  her  on 
the  lips. 

The  door  closed  behind  him  noiselessly,  and  a  half 
minute  later  the  loose-wheeled  old  surrey  went 
rumbling  past  the  door.  Mrs.  Burton  was  feminine 
and  curious,  and  she  went  to  the  window  to  watch 
it  from  sight.  The  Indian,  alone  on  the  front  seat, 


The  Tree  of  Knowledge  165 

sat  looking  straight  ahead.  The  bronchos,  fresh 
from  the  stall,  and  but  a  few  weeks  before  wild  on 
the  prairie,  tugged  at  the  bit  wickedly,  tried  to  bolt; 
but  the  driver  did  not  stir  in  his  place.  The  left 
hand,  that  held  the  reins,  rose  and  fell  with  their 
motion,  as  an  angler  takes  up  slack  in  his  line;  that 
was  all.  The  woman  had  lived  long  on  the  frontier. 
She  was  appreciative  and  pressed  her  face  against  the 
pane  the  better  to  see.  They  were  through  the  gate 
now,  well  out  on  the  prairie.  The  clatter  of  the 
waggon  had  ceased,  the  figure  of  the  driver  was  con 
cealed  by  the  curtains;  but  the  bronchos  were  still 

tugging  at  the  bit,  still 

"  Mary!  In  heaven's  name!"  The  sound  of  a 
falling  body  had  caught  her  ear  and  she  had  turned. 
"Mary  Landor!"  The  dishes  in  the  cupboard 
against  the  wall  shook  as  something  heavy  met  the 
floor.  "  Mary!  "  A  pause  and  a  tongue-tied  exam 
ination.  "My  God!  The  woman  is  dead!" 

It  was  ten  minutes  before  starting  time.  The  old- 
fashioned  engine,  contemptuously  relegated  to  the 
frontier  before  going  to  the  junk  heap,  was  puffing 
at  the  side  of  the  low  sanded  station  platform.  The 
rough  cottonwood  box  was  already  in  the  baggage  car. 
How  himself  had  assisted  in  putting  it  there,  had 
previously  settled  for  its  transportation.  Likewise 
he  had  bought  the  girl's  ticket,  and  checked  her  scanty 
baggage.  The  usual  crowd  of  loafers  was  about  the 
place,  and  his  every  action  was  observed  with  the 


1 66  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

deepest  interest.  Wherever  he  moved  the  spectators 
followed.  Urchins  near  at  hand  fought  horrible 
mimic  duels  for  his  benefit;  duels  which  invariably 
ended  in  the  scalping  of  the  vanquished — and  with 
expressions  of  demoniacal  exultation  playing  upon  the 
face  of  the  conqueror.  From  far  in  the  rear  a  war 
whoop  sounded;  and  when  the  effort  was  to  all  evi 
dence  ignored,  was  repeated  intrepidly  near  at  hand. 
They  put  themselves  elaborately  in  his  way,  to  move 
at  his  approach  with  grunts  of  guttural  protestation. 
Already,  even  here  on  the  frontier,  the  Sioux  and  his 
kind  were  becoming  a  novelty.  Verily  they  were  rare 
sportsmen,  those  mimicking  loafers;  and  for  Indians 
it  was  ever  the  open  season.  All  about  sounded  the 
popping  of  their  artillery;  to  be,  when  exhausted,  as 
often  reloaded  and  fired  again. 

But  through  it  all,  apparently  unseeing,  uncon 
scious,  the  man  had  gone  about  his  business.  Now 
as  he  left  the  ticket  window  and  approached  the  single 
coach,  it  was  nearly  starting  time.  The  girl  had  al 
ready  entered  and  sat  motionless  in  her  seat  watching 
him  through  the  dusty  window  glass.  Craig,  his  feet 
wide  apart,  stood  on  the  platform  smoking  a  last 
cigarette.  He  shrugged  in  silence  as  the  other  passed 
him  and  mounted  the  steps. 

Save  for  the  girl,  the  coach  was  empty;  but,  des-: 
titute  of  courtesy,  the  spectators  without  stared 
with  redoubled  interest.  Without  a  word  the  man 
handed  over  the  ticket  and  checks.  Still  in  silence  he 
slipped  a  roll  of  bills  into  her  passive  hand.  Until 


The  Tree  of  Knowledge  167 

that  moment  the  girl  had  not  thought  of  money;  but 
even  now  as  she  accepted  it,  there  never  occurred  the 
wonder  from  whence  it  had  come.  Had  she  known 
how  those  few  dollars  had  been  stored  up,  bit  by  bit, 
month  by  month But  she  did  not  know.  Un 
believably  unsophisticated,  unbelievably  innocent  and 
helpless,  was  Elizabeth  Landor  at  this  time.  Sitting 
there  that  morning  on  the  threshold,  she  had  no  more 
comprehension  of  the  world  she  was  entering,  she  had 
entered,  than  of  eternity  itself.  She  was  merely  pas 
sive,  trusting,  waiting  to  be  led.  Like  a  bit  of  down 
from  the  prairie  milkw7eed  plant,  she  was  to  be  the 
sport  of  every  breath  of  wind  that  blew.  And  al 
ready  that  wind  was  blowing.  She  had  watched  the 
scene  on  the  platform,  had  understood  the  intent  of 
the  mimicry,  had  seen  the  winks  and  nudges,  had 
heard  the  mocking  war  whoop.  All  this  she  had 
seen,  all  this  had  been  stored  away  in  her  conscious 
ness  to  recur  again  and  again  in  the  future.  Even 
now  her  cheeks  had  burned  at  the  knowledge,  and  at 
last  she  had  watched  the  man's  coming  with  a  feeling 
of  repression  she  had  never  known  before,  whose 
significance  she  did  not  try  to  analyse,  did  not  in  the 
least  understand.  She  did  not  thank  him  for  the 
money.  To  do  so  never  occurred  to  her.  It  was  the 
moment  for  parting,  but  she  did  not  throw  her  arms 
about  his  neck  in  abandon,  as  she  would  have  done  a 
week  before.  Something,  she  knew  not  what,  pre 
vented.  She  merely  sat  there,  repressed,  passive, 
waiting. 


1 68  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

A  moment,  by  her  side,  the  Indian  paused.  He 
did  not  speak,  he  did  not  move.  He  merely  looked  at 
her;  and  in  his  dark  eyes  there  was  mirrored  a  reflec 
tion  of  the  look  there  had  been  in  the  eyes  of  the 
wild  thing  he  had  stalked  and  captured  that  day  alone/ 
on  the  prairie.  But  the  girl  was  not  looking  at  him, 
did  not  see.  A  moment  he  stood  so,  unconsciously  as 
so  many,  many  times  before,  in  pose;  then  deliberately, 
gently,  ignoring  the  row  of  curious  observant  eyes, 
he  took  her  hand  and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Good-bye,  Bess,"  he  said  low.  "  Come  back  as 
soon  as  you  can;  and  don't  worry.  Everything  will 
come  right."  Gently  as  he  had  lifted  the  hand,  he 
released  it.  A  smile — who  but  he  could  have  smiled 
at  that  moment? — played  for  an  instant  over  his  face. 
Then,  almost  before  the  girl  realised  the  fact,  before 
the  repressive  something  that  held  her  in  its  grip  gave 
release,  he  was  gone. 

As  he  left  the  coach,  Craig,  who  was  waiting, 
started  without  a  word  or  a  hint  of  recognition  to 
enter.  His  foot  was  already  on  the  step,  when  he 
felt  a  hand  upon  his  arm;  a  hand  with  a  grip  whose 
meaning  there  was  no  misinterpreting.  Against  his 
will  he  drew  back.  Against  his  will  he  met  the  other 
face  to  face,  eye  to  eye.  For  what  seemed  to  him 
minutes,  but  which  in  reality  was  only  a  second,  they 
stood  so.  Not  a  word  was  spoken,  of  warning  or  of 
commonplace.  There  was  no  polite  farce  for  the 
benefit  of  the  spectators.  The  Indian  merely  looked 
at  him ;  but  as  once  before,  alone  under  the  stars,  that 


The  Tree  of  Knowledge  169 

look  was  to  remain  burned  on  the  white  man's  memory 
until  he  went  to  his  grave. 

"  A'board,"  bawled  the  conductor,  and  as  though 
worked  by  the  same  wire,  the  engineer's  waiting  head 
disappeared  within  the  cab  window. 

Side  by  side,  Clayton  Craig  and  Elizabeth  Landor 
sat  watching  the  weather-stained  station  and  the 
curious  assembled  group,  as  apparently  they  slowly 
receded.  The  last  thing  they  saw  was  the  alien 
figure  of  an  Indian  in  rancher's  garb,  gazing  motion 
less  after  them ;  and  by  his  side,  in  baiting  pantomime, 
one  gawky  urchin  engaged  in  the  labour  of  scalping  a 
mate.  The  last  sound  that  reached  their  ears  was 
the  ironic  note  of  a  war  whoop  repeated  again  and 
again. 


Chapter  XII 

WITHIN  THE  CONQUEROR'S  OWN  COUNTRY 

IT  was  the  day  set  for  the  wedding,  the  eighteenth 
since  the  girl  had  left,  the  sixteenth  since  a  new  mound 
had  arisen  on  the  bare  lot  adjoining  that  beneath 
which  rested  Landman  Bud  Smith,  the  twelfth  since 
How  Landor  had  arrived  to  haunt  the  tiny  railway 
terminus.  The  one  train  from  the  East  was  due  at 
8: 10  of  the  morning.  It  was  now  eight  o'clock. 
Within  the  shambling,  ill-kept  hotel,  with  its  weather- 
stained  exterior  and  its  wind-twisted  sign,  the  best 
room,  paid  for  in  advance  and  freshly  dusted  for  the 
occasion,  awaited  an  occupant.  In  a  stall  of  the 
single  livery,  a  pair  of  half-wild  bronchos,  fed  and 
harnessed  according  to  directions,  were  passively 
waiting.  An  old  surrey,  recently  oiled  and  tightened 
in  all  its  senile  joints,  was  drawn  up  conveniently  to 
the  door.  In  a  tiny  room,  designated  the  study,  of 
the  Methodist  parsonage,  on  the  straggling  out 
skirts  of  the  town,  the  only  minister  the  settlement 
boasted  sat  staring  at  the  unpapered  wall  opposite. 
He  was  a  mild-featured  young  man  of  the  name  of 
Mitchell,  recently  graduated  from  a  school  of  the 
ology,  and  for  that  reason  selected  as  a  sacrifice  to  the 
frontier.  In  front  of  him  on  the  desk  lay  a  duly  pre 
pared  marriage  licence,  and  upon  it  a  bright  gold  half 

170 


Within  the  Conqueror's  Own  Country    171 

eagle.  From  time  to  time  he  glanced  thereat  pecu 
liarly,  and  in  sympathy  from  it  to  the  tiny  fast-ticking 
clock  at  its  side.  He  did  so  now,  and  frowned  uncon 
sciously. 

At  the  station  the  crowd  of  loafers  that  always  pre 
ceded  the  arrival  or  departure  of  a  train  were  con 
gregated.  In  some  way  suggestions  of  the  unusual 
had  passed  about,  and  this  day  their  number  was 
greatly  augmented.  Just  what  they  anticipated  they 
did  not  know ;  they  did  not  care.  Restless,  athirst  for 
excitement,  they  had  dumbly  responded  to  the  influ 
ence  in  the  air  and  come.  In  the  foreground,  where  a 
solitary  Indian  stood  motionless,  waiting,  there  was 
being  repeated  the  same  puerile  pantomime  and  horse 
play  of  a  former  occasion.  At  intervals,  from  the 
rear,  sounded  the  war  whoop  travesty.  It  was  all  the 
same  as  that  afternoon  eighteen  days  before,  when  the 
girl  had  left,  similar  even  to  the  cloud  of  black  smoke 
in  the  distance  lifting  lazily  into  the  sky;  only  now  the 
trail,  instead  of  growing  thinner  and  lighter,  became 
denser  and  blacker  minute  by  minute.  In  sympathy, 
the  humorists  on  the  platform  redoubled  their  efforts. 
The  instinct  of  anticipation,  of  Anglo-Saxon  love  of 
excitement  that  had  brought  them  there,  urged  them 
on.  Not  one  throat  but  many  underwent  simulta 
neous  pantomimic  bisection.  A  half  dozen  voices 
caught  up  the  war  whoop,  passed  it  on  from  throat  to 
throat.  Almost  before  they  realised  what  they  were 
doing,  the  thing  became  a  contagion,  an  orgy.  Many 
who  had  not  taken  part  before,  who  had  come  from 


172  Where  tHe  Trail  Divides 

mere  curiosity,  took  part  now.  The  crowd  pressed 
closer  and  closer  about  the  alien,  the  centre  of  attrac 
tion.  When  he  moved  farther  along  the  platform  to 
avoid  them,  they  followed.  Heretofore  passive,  the 
'innate  racial  hostility  became  active.  One  youth  with 
'  a  dare-devil  air  jostled  him — and  disappeared  pre- 
eipitately.  There  was  no  response,  no  retaliation, 
and  another  followed  his  example.  The  confusion  re 
doubled,  drowned  the  roar  of  the  approaching  train. 
Spectators  in  the  rear  began  mounting  trucks  and 
empty  barrels  the  better  to  see.  Within  the  station 
itself  the  shirt-sleeved  agent  surreptitiously  locked  the 
door  to  the  ticket-room  and  sprung  the  combination 
of  the  safe.  Beginning  harmlessly,  the  incident  was 
taking  on  a  sinister  aspect,  and  he  had  lived  too  long 
in  this  semi-lawless  land  to  take  any  chances.  Re 
turning  to  his  place  of  observation  at  the  window,  he 
was  just  in  time  to  see  a  decayed  turnip  come  hurtling 
over  the  heads  of  the  crowd  and,  with  enviable  ac 
curacy,  catch  the  Indian  behind  the  ear.  Simulta 
neously,  with  a  roar  and  a  puff  of  displaced  air,  the 
light  train  drew  into  the  station,  on  time. 
,  Through  it  all  the  Indian  had  not  spoken  a  word. 
Save  to  move  twice  farther  away  along  the  platform, 
he  had  not  stirred.  Unbelievable  as  it  may  seem, 
even  when  the  missile  had  struck  him,  though  it  had 
left  a  great  red  welt,  he  gave  no  sign  of  feeling.  For 
a  space  following  the  arrival  of  the  train  there  was  a 
lull,  and  in  it,  as  though  nothing  had  happened,  he 
approached  the  single  coach  and  stood  waiting. 


Within  the  Conqueror's  Own  Country    173 

It  was  the  last  of  the  week  and  travel  was  very 
light. 

A  dapper  commercial  salesman  with  an  imita 
tion  alligator  grip  descended  first,  looked  about  him 
apprehensively,  and  disappeared  with  speed.  A  big 
rancher  with  great  curling  moustaches  and  a  vest  open 
save  at  the  bottom  button  followed.  He  likewise 
took  stock  of  the  surroundings,  and  discreetly  with 
drew.  Following  him  there  was  a  pause;  then  of  a 
sudden  onto  the  platform,  fair  into  view  of  the  crowd, 
appeared  one  for  whom  apparently  they  had  been 
looking,  one  who  on  the  instant  caused  the  confusion, 
temporarily  stilled,  to  break  forth  anew :  the  figure  of 
a  dainty  brown  girl  with  sensitive  eyes  and  a  soft  oval 
chin,  of  Elizabeth  Landor  returned  alone! 

"  Ah,  there  she  is,"  shouted  a  voice,  an  united  voice, 
the  refound  voice  of  the  expectant  crowd. 

"  Yes,  there  she  is,"  repeated  the  intrepid  youth 
who  had  introduced  the  jostle.  "  Go  to,  redskin. 
Kiss  her  again.  Kiss  her;  we  don't  mind." 

A  great  shout  followed  this  sally,  a  shout  that  was 
heard  far  up  the  single  street,  and  that  brought 
curious  faces  to  a  half  score  of  doors. 

"  No,  we  don't  mind,  redskin,"  they  guffawed. 
"Goto!  Goto!" 

Hesitant,  hopelessly  confused,  the  girl  halted  as  she 
had  appeared.  Her  great  eyes  opened  wider  than 
before,  her  face  shaded  paler  momentarily,  the  soft 
oval  chin  trembled.  Another  minute,  another  second 
even. 


H74  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

"  Come,  Bess,"  said  a  low  voice.  "  Come  on; 
don't  mind  them.  I'll  take  care  of  you." 

It  was  the  first  speech  the  man  had  made,  and 
from  pure  curiosity  the  crowd  went  silent,  listening — 
silent  until  he  was  silent;  then  with  the  lack  of  orig 
inality  ever  manifest  in  a  mob,  they  caught  up  his 
words  themselves. 

"  Yes,  Bess,"  they  baited,  "  he'll  take  care  of  you. 
Come,  don't  keep  him  waiting." 

But  the  girl  did  not  stir.  Had  empires  depended 
upon  it  that  moment,  she  could  not  have  complied. 
Could  she  have  cried,  as  the  chin  had  at  first  presaged, 
she  might  perhaps  have  done  so;  but  she  was  beyond 
the  reach  of  tears  now.  The  complete  meaning  of 
the  scene  had  come  to  her  at  last,  the  realisation  of 
personal  menace;  and  a  fear  such  as  she  had  never 
before  known,  gripped  her  relentlessly.  She  could 
hear,  hear  every  word;  but  her  muscles  refused  to  act. 
She  merely  stood  there,  the  old  telescope  satchel  she 
carried  gripped  tight  in  her  hand,  her  great  eyes,  wide 
and  soft  as  those  of  a  wild  thing,  staring  out  into  the 
now  rapidly  accumulating  rabble;  merely  stared  and 
waited. 

u  Bess,"  repeated  the  persuading  voice,  "  come, 
please.  Don't  stand  there,  come." 

At  last  the  girl  seemed  to  hear,  to  understand. 
Hesitatingly,  with  trembling  steps,  she  came  a  pace 
forward,  and  another;  then  of  a  sudden  she  gave  a 
little  cry  and  her  free  hand  lifted  defensively.  But 
she  was  not  quick  enough,  had  seen  too  late ;  and  that 


Within  the  Conqueror's  Own  Country    175 

instant  came  the  denouement.  A  second  turnip,  de 
cayed  like  its  predecessor,  aimed  likewise  unerringly, 
caught  her  fair  in  the  mouth,  spattered,  and  broke  into 
fragments  that  fell  to  the  car  steps.  Following, 
swift  as  rain  after  a  thunderclap,  a  spurt  of  blood 
came  to  her  lips  and  trickled  down  her  face. 

Simultaneously  the  crowd  went  silent;  silent  as  the 
still  prairie  about  them,  awed  irresistibly  by  the  thing 
they  had  themselves  wittingly  or  unwittingly  done. 
Save  one,  not  a  human  being  stirred.  That  one,  no 
need  to  tell  whom,  transformed  visibly;  transformed 
as  they  had  never  seen  a  human  being  alter  before. 
With  not  a  step,  but  a  bound,  he  was  himself  on  the 
platform  of  the  coach ;  the  girl,  protected  behind  him, 
hid  from  sight.  She  was  sobbing  now;  sobbing 
tumultuously,  hysterically.  In  the  stillness  every  lis 
tening  ear  on  the  platform  could  hear  distinctly.  For 
an  instant  after  he  had  reached  her  the  Indian  stood 
so,  his  left  arm  about  her,  his  back  toward  them.  He 
did  not  say  a  word,  he  did  not  move.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  dared  not.  He  did  not  see  red 
that  moment,  this  man;  he  saw  black — black  as 
prairie  loam.  Every  savage  instinct  in  his  brain  was 
clamouring  for  freedom,  clamouring  until  his  free 
hand  was  clenched  tight  to  keep  it  from  the  bulging 
holster  behind  his  right  hip.  Before  this  instant, 
when  they  were  baiting  him  alone,  it  was  nothing, 

he  could  forgive;  but  now — now He  stared 

away  from  them,  stared  up  into  the  smiling,  sarcastic 
prairie  sky;  but,  listening,  they,  who  almost  with  fas- 


176  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

cination  watched,  could  hear  beneath  the  catch  of  the 
girl's  sobs   the  sound  of  his  breathing. 

Ever  at  climaxes  time  seems  suspended.  Whether 
it  was  a  second  or  a  minute  he  stood  there  so,  they 
who  watched  could  never  tell.  What  they  did  know 
was  that  at  last  he  turned,  stood  facing  them.  All 
their  lives  they  had  seen  passion,  seen  it  in  every 
phase,  seen  it  until  it  was  commonplace.  It  was  in 
the  very  air  of  the  frontier,  to  be  expected,  life  of  the 
life;  but  as  this  man  shifted  they  saw  a  kind  of  which 
they  had  never  dreamed.  For  How  Landor  was 
master  of  himself  again,  master,  as  well — they  knew 
it,  every  man  and  youth  who  saw, — of  them.  For 
another  indefinitely  long  deathly  silent  space  he 
merely  looked  at  them;  looked  eye  to  eye,  individual 
by  individual,  into  every  face  within  the  surrounding 
semi-circle.  Once  before  another  man,  a  drunken 
cowman,  had  seen  that  identical  look.  Now  not  one 
but  a  score  saw  it,  felt  a  terrible  ice-cold  menace  creep 
from  his  brain  into  their  brains.  Even  yet  he  did  not 
speak,  did  not  make  a  sound ;  nor  did  they.  Explain 
it  as  you  will,  he  did  this  thing.  Another  thing  he  did 
as  well ;  and  that  was  the  end.  Slowly,  deliberately,  he 
stepped  to  the  platform  and  held  out  his  hand. 
Obediently  the  girl  followed.  She  was  not  crying 
now.  Her  eyes  were  red  and  a  drop  of  blood  came 
now  and  then  to  her  lips ;  but  she  had  grown  wonder 
fully  quiet  all  at  once,  wonderfully  calm — almost  as 
much  so  as  the  man.  Deliberately  as  he  had  stepped 
down  into  the  spectators'  midst,  the  Indian  took  the 


Within  the  Conqueror's  Own  Country    177 

old  telescope  from  the  girl's  hand  and,  she  following 
by  his  side,  moved  a  step  forward.  He  did  not  touch 
her  again  nor  did  she  him.  They  merely  moved 
ahead  toward  the  sidewalk  that  led  up  the  single 
street;  moved  deliberately,  leisurely,  as  though  they 
were  alone.  Not  around  the  crowd,  but  straight 
through  it  they  passed;  through  a  lane  that  opened 
as  by  magic  as  they  went,  and  as  by  magic  closed 
behind  them,  until  they  were  within  a  solid  human 
square.  But  of  all  the  assembled  spectators  that  day, 
an  aggregation  irresponsible,  unchivalrous  as  no  other 
rabble  on  earth — a  mob  of  the  frontier, — not  one 
spoke  to  challenge  their  action,  not  one  attempted  to 
bar  their  way.  The  complete  length  of  the  platform 
they  went  so,  turned  the  corner  by  the  station — and, 
simultaneously,  the  crowd  disappeared  from  view,  hid 
by  the  building  itself.  Then  in  sudden  reaction,  the 
girl  weakened.  Irresistibly  she  caught  at  the  man's 
arm,  held  it  fast. 

"  Oh,  How!  How!  "  she  trembled,  "  is  it  to  be 
always  like  this  with  you  and  me?  Is  it  to  be  always, 
everywhere,  so?  " 

But  the  man  said  never  a  word. 

Two  hours  had  passed.  The  girl  had  breakfasted 
A  wood  fire  crackled  cheerfully  in  the  sheet  iron 
heater  of  the  tiny  room  where  the  same  two  people 
sat  alone.  Already  the  world  had  taken  on  a  differ 
ent  aspect.  Not  that  Elizabeth  Landor  had  forgotten 
that  recent  incident  at  the  depot.  She  would  never 


178  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

forget  it.  It  had  merely  passed  into  temporary  abey 
ance,  taken  its  proper  place  in  the  eternal  scheme  of 
things.  Another  consideration,  paramount,  all-com 
pelling,  had  inevitably  crowded  it  from  the  stage.  It 
was  this  consideration  that  had  held  her  silent  far 
longer  than  was  normal.  It  was  its  overshadowing 
influence  that  at  last  prompted  speech. 

"  How  did  you  know  I  was  coming  to-day?  "  she 
queried  suddenly. 

"  How  did  you  know  I  would  be  at  the  train  to 
meet  you?  "  echoed  a  voice. 

The  girl  did  not  answer,  did  not  pursue  the 
subject. 

"  Tell  me  of  Aunt  Mary,  please,"  she  digressed. 

"  I  felt  somehow  when  you  wrote  as  if  I — I " 

A  swiftly  gathered  shower  called  a  halt.  Tear  drops, 
ever  so  near,  stood  in  her  eyes.  "  Please  tell  me," 
she  completed. 

The  man  told  her.  It  did  not  take  long.  As  of 
her  prosaic  life,  so  there  was  little  to  record  of  the 
death  of  Mary  Landor.  "  It  was  best  that  you  were 
away,"  he  ended.  "  It  was  best  for  her  that  she  went 
when  she  did." 

"  You  think  so,  How,  honestly?  "  No  affectation 
in  that  anxious  query.  '  You  think  I  didn't  do  wrong 
in  leaving  as  I  did?  " 

"  No,  you  did  no  wrong,  Bess."  A  pause.  "  You 
could  not." 

A  moment  the  girl  sat  looking  at  him;  in  wonder 
and  something  more. 


Within  the  Conqueror's  Own  Country    179 

"  I  believe  you  knew  all  the  time  Aunt  Mary  would 
s — go  while  I  was  away,"  she  said  suddenly,  tensely. 
"  I  believe  you  helped  me  away  on  purpose." 

No  answer. 

"  Tell  me,  How.     I  want  to  know." 

"  I  thought  so,  Bess,"  simply. 

For  a  long  time  the  girl  sat  so;  silent,  marvelling. 
'A  new  understanding  of  this  solitary  human  stole  over 
her,  an  appreciation  that  drowned  the  sadness  of  a 
moment  ago.  "  How  you  must  care  for  me,"  she 
voiced  almost  unconsciously.  "  How  you  must  care 
for  me !  " 

She  did  not  expect  an  answer.  She  was  not  dis 
appointed.  Again  a  silence  fell;  a  silence  of  which 
she  was  unconscious,  for  she  was  thinking.  Minutes 
passed.  In  the  barn  the  bronchos  were  passively 
waiting.  At  the  parsonage  the  young  minister  still 
sat  scowling  in  his  study.  No  time  had  been  set  for 
the  visit  he  expected.  There  was  no  apparent  reason 
why  he  should  not  have  gone  about  his  work;  but  for 
some  reason  he  could  not.  Angry  with  himself,  he 
thrust  the  new  half  eagle  into  his  pocket  and,  placing 
the  offending  licence  beneath  a  pile  of  papers,  he 
walked  over  to  the  window  and  stood  staring  out  into 
the  sunshine. 

Within  the  tiny  room  at  the  hotel  the  gaze  of  the 
girl  shifted,  dropped  to  her  feet.  Despite  an  effort 
her  face  tinged  slowly  red. 

"  Did  you  think,"  she  queried  abruptly,  "  when  you 
expected  me  to-day  that  I  would  come  alone?  " 


180  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

The  Indian  showed  no  surprise. 

"  Yes,  Bess,"  he  answered.  "  I  knew  you  would 
be  alone." 

"Why,  How?"     The  question  was  just  audible. 

"  Because  I  trusted  you,  Bess." 

Silence  again.  Surreptitiously,  swiftly,  the  girl'sj 
brown  eyes  glanced  up ;  but  he  was  not  looking  at  her, 
and  again  her  glance  fell.  A  longer  pause  followed, 
a  pause  wherein  the  girl  could  not  have  spoken  if  she 
would.  A  great  preventing  lump  was  in  her  throat, 
an  obstacle  that  precluded  speech.  Many  things  had 
happened  in  the  short  time  since  she  had  last  been 
with  this  man,  some  things  of  which  she  was  not 
proud;  and  beside  such  a  trust  as  this  Bess  Landor 
was  speechless.  Without  volition  upon  her  part,  the 
cup  of  life  had  been  placed  to  her  lips  and,  likewise 
without  knowledge  of  what  it  contained,  she  had 
tasted.  The  memory  of  that  draught  was  with  her 
now.  Under  its  influence  she  spoke. 

'*  You  are  better  than  I  am,  How,"  she  said. 

If  the  man  understood  he  gave  no  evidence  of  the 
knowledge.  He  did  not  even  look  at  her.  Time 
was  passing,  time  which  should  have  found  them  upon 
their  way,  but  he  showed  no  impatience.  It  was  his 
day,  his  moment,  his  by  right;  but  no  one  looking  at 
him  would  have  doubted  that  he  himself  would  never 
first  suggest  the  fact.  Conditions  had  changed  very 
rapidly  in  the  recent  past,  altered  until,  from  his 
view-point,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  make  the 
move  toward  the  old  relation,  to  even  intimate  its  de- 


Within  the  Conqueror's  Own  Country    181 

sirability.  With  the  patience  of  his  race  he  waited. 
In  the  fulness  of  time  he  was  rewarded. 

"  How,"  of  a  sudden  initiated  a  voice,  withal  an 
embarrassed  voice,  "  will  you  do  me  a  favour?  " 

"  What  is  it,  Bess?" 

The  girl  coloured.  Instinctively  the  man  knew 
that  at  last  the  recall  had  come,  and  for  the  first  time 
he  was  looking  at  her  steadily. 

"  Promise  me,  please,"  temporised  the  girl. 

"  I  promise." 

Even  yet  Elizabeth  Landor  found  it  difficult  to  say 
what  she  wished  to  say. 

'You  won't  be — offended  or  angry,  How?" 

"  No,  Bess.  You  could  hurt  me,  but  you  couldn't 
make  me  angry." 

"  Thank  you,  How.  It's  a  little  thing,  but  I'd  like 
to  have  you  humour  me."  She  met  his  look  directly. 
"  It's  when  we  are  married  to-day  you'll  be  dressed — • 
well,  not  the  way  you  usually  dress."  Her  colour 
came  and  went,  her  throat  was  a-throb.  "  Dressed 
like You  understand,  How." 

Of  a  sudden  the  Indian  was  upon  his  feet;  then  as 
suddenly  he  checked  himself.  Characteristically,  he 
now  ignored  the  immaterial,  went,  as  ever,  straight 
to  fundamentals  without  preface  or  delay.  Scarce 
one  human  in  a  generation  would  have  held  aloof  at 
that  moment.  It  was  his,  his  by  every  right;  but 
even  yet  he  would  not  take  it,  not  until 

"  Bess,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I  want  to  ask  you  a 
question  and  I  want  you  to  answer  me — as  you  would 


1 82  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

answer  your  mother  were  she  alive."  Once  again, 
unconsciously,  he  fell  into  pose,  his  arms  across  his 
breast,  his  great  shoulders  squared.  "  I  have  seen 
Mr.  Landor's  will.  He  has  left  you  nearly  every 
thing.  You  are  rich,  Bess ;  I  won't  tell  you  how  rich 
because  you  wouldn't  understand.  You  are  young 
and  can  live  any  life  you  wish.  You  know  what 
marrying  me  means.  I  am  as  I  am  and  cannot 
change.  You  know  what  others,  people  of  your  own 
race,  think  when  you  are  with  me.  They  have  shown 
you  to-day.  Answer  me,  Bess,  have  you  thought  of 
all  this  ?  Was  it  duty  that  brought  you  back,  or  did 
you  really  wish  to  come?  Don't  take  me  into  con 
sideration  at  all  when  you  answer.  Don't  do  it,  or 
we  shall  both  live  to  regret.  Tell  me,  Bess,  as  you 
know  I  love  you,  whether  you  have  thought  of  all 
this  and  still  wish  to  marry  me.  Tell  me."  He  was 
silent.  Once  again  it  was  a  climax,  and  once  again 
came  oblivion  of  passing  time.  For  minutes  passed, 
minutes  wherein,  with  wide  open  eyes,  the  girl  made 
her  choice.  Not  in  hot  blood  was  the  decision  made, 
not  as  before  in  ignorance  of  what  that  decision 
meant.  Deliberately,  with  the  puerile  confidence  we 
humans  feel  in  our  insight  of  future,  she  chose ;  as  she 
believed,  honestly. 

"  Yes,  How,"  she  said  slowly.  "  I  have  thought 
of  it  all  and  I  wish  to  marry  you.  I've  no  place  else 
in  the  world  to  go.  There's  no  one  in  the  world 
that  I  trust  as  I  trust  you.  I  wish  to  marry  you  to 
day,  How." 


Within  the  Conqueror's  Own  Country    183 

i 

Then,  indeed,  it  was  the  man's  moment.  Then, 
and  not  until  then,  he  accepted  his  reward. 

"  Bess !  "  She  was  in  his  arms.  "  Bess !  "...  He 
tasted  Paradise.  "  Bess !  "  That  was  all. 

For  the  second  time  that  day  the  air  of  the  tiny 
town  tingled  with  portent  of  the  unusual.  For  the 
second  time  a  crowd  was  gathered;  only  now  it  was 
not  at  the  station,  but  at  a  place  of  far  more  sinister 
import,  within  and  in  front  of  the  "  Lost  Hope  " 
saloon.  Again  in  personnel  it  was  different,  notably 
different  from  that  of  the  first  occasion.  The  same  irre- 
sponsibles  were  there,  as  ever  they  are  present  at  times 
of  storm;  but  added  to  the  aggregation  now,  out 
numbering  them,  were  others  ordinarily  responsible, 
men  typical  in  every  way  of  the  time  and  place.  A 
second  difference  of  even  greater  portent  was  the 
motif  of  gathering.  For  it  was  not  a  mere  ru 
mour,  an  idle  curiosity,  that  had  brought  them  to 
gether  now.  On  the  contrary  they  had  at  last,  these 
dominant  Anglo-Saxons,  begun  to  take  themselves 
seriously.  Rumour,  inevitable  in  a  place  where  days 
were  as  much  alike  as  the  one-story  buildings  on  the 
main  street,  had  begun  when  How  Landor  had  com 
menced  to  haunt  the  station  at  the  time  of  the  incom 
ing  train.  The  incident  of  the  morning  had  famil 
iarised  the  rumour  into  gossip.  Hard  upon  this 
had  followed  a  report  from  the  hotel  landlord,  and 
gossip  had  become  certainty.  Then  it  was  that  horse 
play  had  ceased,  and,  save  at  the  point  of  congrega- 


184  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

tion,  a  silence,  unwonted  and  sinister,  had  taken  its 
place.  So  marked  was  the  change  that  when  at  last 
the  Indian  and  the  girl  left  the  hotel  together  on  their 
way  to  the  parsonage  the  street  through  which  they 
passed  was  as  still  as  though  it  were  the  street  of  a 
prairie  dog  town.  So  quiet  it  was  that  the  girl  was 
deceived;  but  the  ears'  of  the  Indian  were  keener,  and 
faint  as  an  echo  beneath  It,  as  yet  well  in  the  distance, 
he  detected  the  warning  of  an  alien  note.  Not  as 
on  that  other  day  out  on  the  prairie  when  he  caught 
the  first  trumpet  call  of  the  Canada  goose,  did  he 
recognise  the  sound  from  previous  familiarity.  Never 
in  his  life  had  he  heard  its  like;  yet  now  an  instinct 
told  him  its  meaning,  told  him  as  well  its  menace. 
Not  once  did  he  look  back,  not  one  word  of  prophecy 
did  he  speak  to  the  girl  at  his  side;  yet  as  surely  as 
a  grey  timber  wolf  realises  what  is  to  come  when  he 
catches  the  first  faint  bay  of  the  hounds  on  his  trail, 
How  Landor  realised  that  at  last  for  him  the  hour 
of  destiny  had  struck,  that  as  surely  as  the  wild  thing 
must  battle  for  life  he  must  do  likewise — and  that 
soon,  very,  very  soon. 

Up  the  street  they  went:  a  small  dark  girl  garbed 
as  no  woman  was  ever  garbed  in  a  fashion-plate,  a 
tall  copper-brown  man  all  but  humorously  grotesque' 
in  a  ready-made  suit  of  clothes  that  were  far  from 
a  fit  and  the  first  starched  shirt  and  collar  he  had 
ever  worn.  Laughable  unqualifiedly,  this  red  man 
tricked  out  in  the  individuality-destroying  dress  of 
the  white  brother  would  have  been  to  an  observer 


Within  the  Conqueror's  Own  Country    185 

who  had  not  the  key  to  the  situation;  but  to  one  who 
knew  the  motive  of  the  alteration  it  was  far  as  the 
ends  of  the  earth  from  humorous.  On  they  went, 
silent  now,  each  in  widely  separated  anticipation;  and 
.after  them,  at  first  silent  likewise,  then  as  it  advanced 
growing  noisier  and  noisier,  followed  the  crowd  which 
had  congregated  at  the  Lost  Hope  saloon.  As  on  the 
day  of  the  little  landman's  funeral  when  Captain  Wil 
liam  Landor  had  passed  up  the  street  of  Cayote 
Centre,  ahead  where  the  Indian  and  the  girl  advanced 
not  the  figure  of  a  human  being  was  in  sight,  unless 
one  were  suspicious  and  looked  closely,  not  a  face; 
but  to  the  Indian  eyes  were  everywhere.  Every 
house  they  passed — for  they  were  in  the  residence 
section  now — had  its  pair  or  multiple  pairs  peering 
out  through  the  slats  of  a  blind,  or,  as  in  a  theatre 
preceding  a  performance,  at  the  side  of  a  drawn  cur 
tain.  Like  wildfire  the  news  had  spread;  like  turtles 
timid  women  folk  had  drawn  close  within  their 
shells;  yet  everywhere  curiosity  they  could  not  re 
press  prompted  them  to  take  a  last  look  before  the 
storm.  Once,  and  once  only,  the  pedestrians  were 
interrupted.  Then  a  house  dog  came  bounding 
across  the  lawn  to  pause  at  a  safe  distance  and 
growl  a  menace;  and  again  the  all-noting  Indian 
had  observed  the  cause  of  the  unwonted  bravery,  had 
heard  the  low  voice  from  the  kitchen  that  had  urged 
the  beast  on. 

Thus  nearer  and  nearer  that  sunny   fall  morn 
ing  the  storm  approached.     Long  before  this,  un- 


1 86  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

observant  though  she  was,  had  the  girl  not  been  living 
in  the  future  instead  of  the  present,  she  would  have 
recognised  its  coming.  For  the  pursuers  were  gain 
ing  rapidly  now.  They  had  crossed  onto  the  same 
street,  the  principal  residence  thoroughfare,  and 
were  coming  as  a  crowd  ever  moves:  swiftly,  those 
in  the  rear  exerting  themselves  to  get  to  the  fore,1 
and  so  again.  Far  from  silent  by  this  time,  the, 
man  ahead,  the  man  who  never  deigned  a  backward 
glance,  could  hear  their  voices  in  a  perpetual  rumble; 
could  distinguish  at  intervals,  interrupting  it,  above 
it,  a  voice  commanding,  inflaming.  Without  seeing, 
he  knew  that  at  last  his  persecutors  had  found  a  com 
mander,  a  directing  spirit — and  as  well  as  he  knew 
his  own  name  he  knew  who  that  leader  was.  Un 
sophisticated  absolutely  in  the  ways  of  the  world 
was  this  man;  but  in  the  reading  of  his  fellows  he 
was  a  master. 

Apparently  oblivious  when  a  part  of  this  same 
crowd  had  congregated  at  the  train,  he  had  never 
theless  observed  them  individual  by  individual;  and 
in  his  own  consciousness  had  known  that  the  moment, 
his  moment,  had  not  come:  for  a  leader,  the  leader,1 
was  not  there.  Again  when  the  train  had  pulled  in 
he  had  watched — and  still  the  leader  did  not  appear,  i 
But  he  was  not  deceived.  As  he  had  trusted  in  the 
girPs  coming  he  had  trusted  in  another's  following 
surreptitiously;  and  as  now  he  heard  that  one  voice 
sounding  above  the  other  voices  he  knew  he  had 
been  right.  For  the  man  at  the  head  of  that  pur- 


Within  the  Conqueror's  Own  Country    187 

suing  mob  which  gained  on  them  so  rapidly  block  by 
block,  the  man  whose  influence  in  those  brief  hours 
the  Indian  and  the  girl  had  been  alone  in  the  tiny 
room  at  the  hotel  had  vitalised  the  lukewarm  racial 
hostility  into  a  thing  of  menace,  was  the  same  man 
whose  life  he  had  once  saved,  the  same  man  about 
whose  throat  ere  the  identical  night  had  passed  his 
fingers  had  closed:  Clayton  Craig  by  name,  one  time 
of  Boston,  Mass.,  but  now,  by  his  uncle's  will,  master 
of  the  Buffalo  Butte  ranch  house ! 

Meanwhile  in  the  study  of  the  parsonage  Clifford 
Mitchell  was  again  looking  out  the  single  window. 
Time  and  time  again  he  had  tried  to  work — and  as 
often  failed.  At  last  he  had  conformed  to  the  in 
evitable  and  was  merely  waiting.  The  house  was  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  town  and  the  window  faced  the 
open  prairie ;  bare  and  rolling  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach.  He  was  city  bred,  this  mild-faced  servant  of 
God,  and  as  yet  the  prairie  country  was  a  thing  at 
which  to  marvel.  He  was  looking  out  upon  it  now, 
absently,  thoughtfully,  wondering  at  its  immensity 
and  its  silence — when  of  a  sudden  he  became  con 
scious  that  it  was  no  longer  silent.  Instead  to  his 
ears,  growing  louder  moment  by  moment,  penetrating 
the  illy  constructed  walls,  came  an  indistinct  roar; 
rising,  lowering,  yet  ever  constant :  a  sound  unlike  any 
other  on  earth,  distinctive  as  the  silence  preceding  had 
been  typical — the  clamour  of  angry,  menacing  human 
voices  en  masse.  Once,  not  long  before,  in  a  city 
street  the  listener  had  heard  that  identical  sound;  and 


1 88  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

recognition  was  instantaneous.  Swift  as  memory  he 
recalled  the  strike  that  had  been  its  cause,  the  horde 
of  sympathisers  who  had  of  a  sudden  appeared  as 
from  the  very  earth,  the  white  face  and  desperate 
figure  of  the  solitary  "  scab  "  fighting  a  moment,  and 
a  moment  only,  for  life,  in  their  midst.  Swift 
as  memory  came  that  picture;  and  swift  upon  its 
heels,  blotting  it  out,  the  present  returned.  Clifford 
Mitchell  had  not  been  among  this  people  long;  yet 
already  he  had  caught  the  spirit  of  the  place,  and 
as  he  listened  he  knew  full  well  what  a  similar  gath 
ering  among  them  would  mean.  He  was  not  a  brave 
man,  this  blue-eyed  pastor;  not  a  drop  of  fight 
ing  blood  was  in  his  veins;  and  as  moment  after 
moment  passed  and  the  sound  grew  nearer  and 
nearer,  the  first  real  terror  of  his  life  came  creeping 
over  him.  Not  in  his  mind  was  there  a  doubt  as  to 
the  destination  of  that  oncoming  multitude.  Pre 
monition  had  been  too  electric  in  the  air  that  day  for 
him  to  question  its  meaning.  They  were  coming  to 
him,  to  him,  Clifford  Mitchell,  these  irresponsible 
menacing  humans.  It  might  be  another  for  whom 
they  had  gathered;  but  he  as  well  would  share  in 
their  displeasure,  in  their  punishment:  for  he  was  a 
party  to  the  thing  of  which  they  disapproved.  All 
the  day,  from  the  time  the  Indian  had  called  and 
almost  simultaneously,  vague  rumours  of  trouble  had 
come  floating  in  the  visitor's  wake;  he  had  been  in 
anticipation;  and  now  the  thing  anticipated  had  be 
come  a  certainty.  Answering  he  felt  the  cold  per- 


Within  the  Conqueror's  Own  Country    189 

spiration  come  pouring  out  on  his  forehead;  and, 
absently,  he  wiped  it  away  with  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
Following  came  a  purely  physical  weakness;  and 
stumbling  across  the  room  he  took  the  seat  beside 
the  desk.  Unconsciously  nervous,  restless,  his  fingers 
fumbled  with  the  pile  of  papers  before  him  until 
they  came  to  a  certain  one  he  had  buried.  Almost 
as  though  impelled  against  his  will  to  do  so  he  spread 
this  one  flat  before  him  and  sat  staring  at  it,  dumbly 
waiting. 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  roar  as  he  sat  there, 
irresistible,  cumulatively  menacing  as  a  force  of  na 
ture;  and  instinctively,  by  it  alone,  the  listener 
marked  the  approach  of  its  makers.  He  could  hear 
them  down  the  street  at  the  other  end  of  the  block 
before  the  residence  of  Banker  Briggs.  He  knew 
this  to  a  certainty  because  part  of  those  who  came 
were  on  the  sidewalk,  and  that  was  the  only  piece  of 
cement  in  town.  Again,  by  the  same  token,  he  knew 
when  they  passed  the  only  other  house  in  the  block 
besides  his  own.  There  was  a  gap  in  the  boardwalk 
there,  and  when  the  leaders  reached  it  the  patter  of 
their  footsteps  went  suddenly  muffled  on  the  bare 
earth.  It  was  his  turn  next,  his  in  a  moment;  yes, 
the  feet  were  already  on  the  confines  of  his  own  yard, 
the  roar  of  their  owners'  voices  was  nil  about  He 
could  even  distinguish  what  they  were  saying  now, 
could  catch  names,  his  own  name. 

Of  a  sudden,  expected  and  yet  unexpected,  a  dark 
shadow  passed  before  his  window,  and  another;  then 


190  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

a  swarm.  Simultaneously  faces,  not  a  few  but  as 
many  as  could  crowd  into  the  space,  appeared  out 
side  the  panes,  staring  curiously  in.  Involuntarily 
he  arose  to  draw  the  shade ;  and  at  that  moment,  in 
terrupting,  startlingly  loud,  there  came  a  knock  at 
his  front  door. 

Clifford  Mitchell  paused  on  his  way  to  the  win 
dow,  stood  irresolute;  and,  seemingly  impossible  as 
it  was,  the  number  of  curious  faces  multiplied. 

The  knock  was  repeated;  not  fearfully  or  fran 
tically,  but  deliberately  and  with  an  insistence  there 
was  no  misunderstanding. 

This  time  the  minister  responded.  He  did  not 
pause  to  blot  out  the  faces  of  the  curious.  The 
licence  he  had  been  absently  holding  was  still  in  his 
hand;  but  he  did  not  delay  to  put  it  down.  There 
was  something  compelling  in  that  knock;  something 
that  demanded  instant  obedience,  and  he  obeyed. 
The  living-room  through  which  he  passed  on  his  way 
had  two  windows  and,  identical  with  that  of  his  study, 
each  was  black  with  humanity;  but  he  did  not  even 
glance  at  them.  His  legs  trembled  involuntarily  and 
his  throat  was  dry  as  though  he  had  been  speaking 
for  hours;  yet,  nevertheless,  he  obeyed.  With  a 
hand  that  shook  perceptibly  he  turned  the  button 
of  the  spring  lock,  and,  opening  the  door  onto  the 
street,  looked  out. 

While  Clifford  Mitchell  lived,  while  lived  every 
man  of  the  uncounted  throng  gathered  there  be 
neath  the  noon-time  sun  that  October  day,  theyr 


Within  the  Conqueror's  Own  Country    191 

remembered  that  moment,  the  moments  that  fol 
lowed.  As  real  life  is  ever  stranger  than  fiction, 
so  off  the  stage  occur  incidents  more  stirring  than 
at  the  play.  Standing  there  in  the  narrow  door 
way,  white-faced,  hesitant,  awaiting  a  command,  the 
minister  himself  exemplified  the  fact  beyond  question ; 
yet  of  his  own  grotesque  part  he  was  oblivious.  He 
had  thought  for  but  one  thing  that  moment,  had 
room  in  his  consciousness  for  but  one  impression ;  and 
that  was  for  the  drama  ready  there  before  him.  And 
small  wonder,  for,  looking  out,  this  was  what  he 
saw: 

An  uneven  straggling  village  street,  mottled  with 
patches  of  dead  grass  and  weeds.  Along  it,  here  and 
there,  like  kernels  of  seed  scattered  on  fallow  groundv 
a  sprinkling  of  one-story  houses.  This  the  back* 
ground.  In  the  midst  of  it  all,  covering  his  lawn, 
overflowing  into  the  yards  of  his  neighbours,  dense, 
crowding  the  better  to  see,  all-surrounding,  was  a 
solid  zone  of  motley  humanity.  Old  men  with 
weather-beaten  faces  and  untrimmed  beards  were 
there,  young  men  with  the  marks  that  dissipation  and 
passion  indelibly  stamp,  awkward,  gawky  youths  un 
consciously  aping  their  elders,  smooth-faced  young 
sters  in  outgrown  garments ;  all  ages  and  conditions  of 
the  human  frontier  male  were  there — but  in  that  zone 
not  a  single  woman.  Ranchers  there  were  in  cordu 
roys  and  denims,  cowboys  in  buckskin  and  flannel, 
gamblers  in  the  glaring  colours  distinctive  of  their 
kind,  business  men  with  closely  cropped  moustaches, 


192  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

idlers  in  anything  and  everything;  but  amid  them  all 
not  a  friendly  face.  This  the  surrounding  zone,  the 
mongrel  pack  that  had  brought  the  quarry  to  bay. 

In  the  centre  of  the  half  circle  they  formed,  within 
a  couple  of  paces  of  the  now  open  doorway,  were 
three  people.  Two  of  them,  a  rather  small  brown 
girl  and  a  tall  wiry  Indian  in  a  new  suit  of  ready- 
made  clothes  and  a  derby  hat  of  the  model  of  the 
year  before,  were  nearest;  so  near  that  the  door, 
which  swung  outward,  all  but  touched  them.  The 
other,  a  well-built,  smooth-faced  Easterner  with  a 
white  skin  and  delicate  hands,  was  opposite.  His  dress 
was  the  dress  of  a  man  of  fashion,  his  cravat  and  pat 
ent  leather  buttoned  shoes  were  of  the  latest  style ;  but 
his  linen  was  soiled  now,  and  a  two-days'  growth  of 
beard  covered  his  chin.  Moreover,  his  eyes  were 
bloodshot  and,  despite  an  effort  to  prevent,  as  he 
stood  there  now  he  wavered  a  bit  to  right  and  left. 
One  look  told  his  story.  He  had  been  drinking, 
drinking  for  days;  and,  worst  of  all,  he  had  been 
drinking  this  day,  drinking  in  anticipation  of  this 
very  moment,  swallowing  courage  against  the  neces 
sity  of  the  now.  All  this  the  stage  and  its  setting, 
upon  which  the  white-faced  minister  raised  the  cur 
tain.  Simultaneously,  as  ever  an  audience  grows 
silent  when  the  real  play  begins,  it  grew  silent  now. 
The  hinges  of  the  little-used  front  door  were  rusty 
and  had  squeaked  startlingly.  Otherwise  not  a  sound 
marked  the  opening  of  the  drama. 

A  moment  following  the  silence  was  intense,  a 


Within  the  Conqueror's  Own  Country    193 

thing  one  could  feel;  then  of  a  sudden  it  was  broken 
— not  by  words,  but  by  action.  One  step  the  white- 
skinned  man  took  forward;  a  step  toward  the  girl. 
A  second  step  he  advanced,  and  halted;  for,  prevent 
ing,  the  hand  of  the  other  man  was  upon  his  own. 

"  Stand  back,  please,"  said  an  even  voice.  "  It's 
not  time  for  congratulations  yet.  Stand  back, 
please.1* 

Answering  there  was  a  sound;  but  not  articulate. 
It  was  a  curse,  a  challenge,  a  menace  all  in  one;  and 
with  a  hysterical  terrified  little  cry  the  girl  shrank 
back  into  the  doorway  itself.  But  none  other,  not 
even  the  minister,  stirred. 

"  Mr.  Craig,"  the  words  were  low,  almost  inti 
mately  low,  but  in  the  stillness  they  seemed  fairly  loud. 
"  I  ask  you  once  more  to  stand  back.  I  don't  warn 
you,  I  merely  request — but  I  shall  not  ask  it  again." 
Of  a  sudden  the  speaker's  hand  left  the  other's  arm, 
dropped  by  his  own  side.  "  Stand  back,  please." 

Face  to  face  the  two  men  stood  there ;  the  one  face 
working,  passionate,  menacing;  the  other  emotionless 
as  the  blue  sky  overhead.  A  moment  they  remained 
so  while  the  breathless  onlookers  expected  anything, 
while  from  the  doorstep  the  minister's  white  lips 
moved  in  a  voiceless  prayer;  then  slowly,  lingeringly, 
the  man  who  had  advanced  drew  back.  A  step  he 
took  silently,  another,  and  his  breathing  became  audi 
ble,  still  another,  and  was  himself  amid  the  spectators. 
Then  for  the  first  time  he  found  voice. 

"  .You  spoke  your  own  sentence  then,  redskin,"  he 


194  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

blazed.     "  We'd  have  let  you  go  if  you'd  given  up 

the  girl;   but  now — now May  God  have  mercy 

on  your  soul  now,  How  Landor!  " 

Again  there  was  silence;  silence  absolute.  As  at 
that  first  meeting  on  the  car  platform,  the  girl  had 
turned  facing  them.  It  was  the  crisis,  and  as  before 
an  instinct  which  she  did  not  understand,  which  she 
merely  obeyed,  brought  her  to  the  Indian's  side ;  held 
her  there  motionless,  passive,  mysteriously  unafraid. 
Her  usually  brown  face  was  very  pale  and  her  eyes 
were  unnaturally  bright;  but  withal  she  was  unbe 
lievably  calm — calm  as  a  child  with  its  hand  in  its 
father's  hand.  Not  even  that  solid  zone  of  men 
acing,  staring  eyes  had  terror  for  her  now.  Whether 
or  no  she  loved  him,  as  she  believed  in  God  she 
trusted  in  that  motionless,  dominant  human  by  her 
side. 

A  moment  they  stood  so  in  a  silence  wherein  they 
could  hear  each  other  breathe,  wherein  the  prayer 
that  had  never  left  the  minister's  lips  became  audi 
ble;  then  came  the  end.  Incredible  after  it  was  over 
was  that  denouement,  inexplicable  to  a  legion  of  old 
men,  then  among  the  boys,  who  witnessed  it,  to  this 
day.  Yet  as  the  incredible  continues  to  take  place 
in  this  world  it  took  place  then.  As  one  man  can 
ever  dominate  other  men  it  was  done  that  silent  noon 
hour.  For  that  moment  the  first  challenge  that  had 
ever  passed  the  lips  of  How  Landor  was  spoken. 
The  only  challenge  that  he  ever  made  to  man  or 
woman  in  his  life  found  voice ;  and  was  not  accepted. 


Within  the  Conqueror's  Own  Country    195 

One  step  he  took  toward  that  listening,  expectant 
throng  and  halted.  With  the  old,  old  motion  his 
arms  folded  across  his  chest. 

"  Men,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  want  trouble  here  to 
day.  I've  done  my  best  to  avoid  it;  but  the  end  has 
come.  I've  stood  everything  at  your  hands,  every 
insult  which  you  could  conceive,  things  which  no  white 
man  would  have  permitted  for  a  second;  and  so  far 
without  resentment.  But  I  shall  stand  it  no  more. 
I'm  one  to  a  hundred;  but  that  makes  no  difference. 
Bess  Landor  and  I  are  to  be  married  now  and  here; 
here  before  you  all.  I  shall  not  talk  to  you  again. 
I  shall  not  ask  you  to  leave  us  in  peace;  but  as  surely 
as  one  of  you  speaks  another  word  of  insult  to  her 
or  to  me,  as  surely  as  one  of  you  attempts  to  interfere 
or  prevent,  I  shall  kill  that  man.  No  matter  which 
of  you  it  is,  I  shall  do  this  thing."  A  moment  longer 
he  stood  so,  observing  them  steadily,  with  folded 
arms ;  then,  still  facing,  he  moved  back  a  step.  "  Mr. 
Mitchell,"  he  said,  "  we  are  ready." 

And  there  that  October  noonday,  fair  in  the  open 
with  two  hundred  curious  eyes  watching,  in  a  silence 
unbroken  as  that  of  prairie  night  itself,  Bess  Landor 
and  Ma-wa-cha-sa  the  Sioux  were  married.  The  min 
ister  stumbled  in  the  ritual,  and  though  he  held  the 
book  close  before  his  face,  it  was  memory  alone  that 
prompted  the  form;  for  the  pages  shook  until  the 
letters  were  blurred.  Yet  it  was  done,  and,  save  one 
alone,  every  spectator  who  had  come  with  a  far  dif 
ferent  intent  stayed  and  listened  to  the  end.  That 


196  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

one,  a  tall,  modish  alien  with  a  red,  flushed  face  cov 
ered  with  a  two-days'  growth  of  bread,  was  likewise 
watching  when  it  began.  But  when  it  was  over  he 
was  not  there ;  and  not  one  of  those  who  had  followed 
his  lead  had  noticed  his  going. 


Chapter  XIII 

THE    MYSTERY    OF    SOLITUDE 

WESTWARD  across  the  unbroken  prairie  country,  into 
the  smiling,  sun-kissed  silence  and  emptiness,  two 
people  were  driving :  a  white  girl  of  two-and-twenty 
summers  and  an  Indian  man  a  few  years  older.  Back 
of  them,  in  the  direction  from  which  they  had  come, 
was  the  outline  of  a  straggling,  desolate  village. 
Ahead,  to  either  side,  was  the  rolling  brown  earth; 
and  at  the  end  of  it,  abrupt  apparently  as  a  material 
wall,  the  blue  of  a  cloudless  October  sky.  The  team 
they  were  driving,  a  mouse-coloured  broncho  and  a 
mate  a  shade  darker,  were  restless  after  three  days 
of  enforced  inactivity  and  tugged  at  the  bit  mightily. 
Though  the  day  was  perfectly  still,  the  canvas  cur 
tains  of  the  old  surrey  flapped  lazily  in  a  breeze  born 
of  the  pace  alone.  The  harness  on  the  ponies  shuffled 
and  creaked  with  every  move.  Though  the  bolts  of 
the  ancient  vehicle  had  been  carefully  tightened,  it 
nevertheless  groaned  at  intervals  with  the  motion; 
mysteriously,  like  the  unconscious  sigh  of  the  aged, 
apparently  without  reason.  Beneath  the  wheels  the 
frost-dried  grass  rattled  continuously,  monotonously; 
but  save  this  last  there  was  no  other  sound.  Since 
the  two  humans  had  left  the  limits  of  the  tiny  town 

197 


198  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

there  had  been  no  other  sound.  Now  and  then  the 
girl  had  glanced  behind,  instinctively,  almost  fear 
fully;  but  not  once  had  the  man  followed  her  example, 
had  he  stirred  in  his  place.  Swiftly,  silently,  he  was 
leaving  civilisation  behind  him;  by  the  scarce  visible 
landmarks  he  alone  distinguished  was  returning  to 
his  own,  to  the  wild  that  lay  in  the  distance' 
beyond. 

Thus  westward,  direct  as  a  tight  cord,  on  and  on 
they  went;  and  back  of  them  gradually,  all  but  un 
consciously,  the  low-built  terminus  grew  dimmer  and 
dimmer,  vanished  detail  by  detail  as  completely  as 
though  it  had  never  been.  Last  of  all  to  disappear, 
already  a  mere  black  dot  against  the  blue,  was  the 
water  tank  beside  the  station.  For  three  miles,  four, 
it  held  its  place;  then,  as,  with  the  old  unconscious 
motion  the  girl  turned  to  look  back,  she  searched  for 
it  in  vain.  Behind  them  as  before,  unbroken,  limit 
ing,  only  the  brown  plain  and  the  blue  surrounding 
wall  met  her  gaze.  At  last,  there  in  the  solitude, 
there  with  no  observer  save  nature  and  nature's  God, 
she  and  the  other  were  alone. 

As  the  first  man  and  the  first  woman  were  alone 
they  were  alone.  From  horizon  to  horizon  was  not  a 
sign  of  human  handiwork,  not  a  suggestion  of  human 
presence.  They  might  live  or  die,  or  laugh  or  weep, 
or  love  or  hate — and  none  of  their  kind  would  be 
the  wiser.  All  her  life  that  she  could  remember  the 
girl  had  lived  so,  all  her  life  she  had  but  to  lift  her 
eyes  above  her  feet  to  gaze  into  the  infinite;  yet  in 


The  Mystery  of  Solitude  199 

the  irony  of  fate  never  until  this  moment,  the  moment 
when  of  all  she  should  have  been  the  happiest,  did 
the  immensity  of  this  solitude  appeal  to  her  so,  did 
appreciation  of  the  terrible,  haunting  loneliness  it  con 
cealed  touch  her  with  its  grip.  Care  free,  thought 
less,  never  until  the  whirl  of  the  last  fortnight  had 
the  future,  her  future,  appealed  to  her  as  something 
which  she  herself  must  shape  or  alter.  Heretofore 
it  had  been  a  thing  taken  for  granted,  preordained 
as  the  alternate  coming  of  light  and  of  darkness. 
But  in  that  intervening  time,  short  as  it  was,  she  had 
awakened.  Rude  as  had  been  the  circumstances  that 
had  aroused  her,  they  had  nevertheless  been  effective. 
Without  volition  upon  her  part  the  panorama  of 
another  life  had  been  unrolled  before  her  eyes. 
Sensations,  thoughts,  impulses  of  which  she  had  never 
previously  dreamed  had  been  hers.  Passions  uncon- 
ceived  had  stalked  before  her  gaze.  More  a  night 
mare  on  the  whole  than  an  awakening  it  had  all  been ; 
yet  nevertheless  the  experience  had  been  hers.  Much 
of  its  meaning  had  passed  her  by.  Events  had 
crowded  too  thickly  for  her  to  grasp  the  whole;  but 
en  masse  the  effect  had  been  definite — startlingly 
definite.  Unbelievable  as  it  may  seem,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  existence  she  had  aroused  to  the  conscious 
ness  of  being  an  individual  entity.  The  inevitable 
metamorphosis  of  age,  the  thing  which  differentiates  a 
child  from  an  adult,  belated  long  in  her  passive  life, 
had  at  last  taken  place.  Bewilderingly  sudden,  so 
sudden  that  as  yet  she  had  not  adjusted  herself  to  the 


2OO  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

change,  had  barely  become  conscious  thereof,  yet  cer 
tain  as  existence  itself,  the  transformation  had  come 
to  pass.  Looking  back  there  that  afternoon,  looking 
where  the  town  had  been  and  now  was  not,  mingling 
with  the  impressions  of  a  day  full  to  overflowing, 
there  came  to  the  girl  for  the  first  time  a  definite  ap-| 
preciation  of  this  thing  that  she  had  done.  And  that 
moment  from  the  scene,  never  to  appear  again,  passed 
Bess  Landor  the  child;  and  invisibly  into  her  place, 
taking  up  the  play  where  the  other  had  left,  came 
Elizabeth  Landor  the  woman. 

Very,  very  long  the  girl  sat  there  so ;  unconsciously 
long.  With  the  swift  reaction  of  youth,  the  scene 
of  the  excitement  vanished,  the  personal  menace  gone, 
the  impression  it  had  made  passed  promptly  into 
abeyance.  As  when  she  and  the  man  had  sat  alone 
in  the  tiny  room  of  the  hotel,  another  consideration 
was  too  insistent,  too  vital,  to  prevent  dominating  the 
moment.  Any  other  diversion,  save  absolute  physi 
cal  pain  itself,  would  have  been  inadequate,  was 
inadequate.  Gradually,  minute  by  minute,  as  the 
outline  of  the  town  itself  had  vanished,  the  depressing 
impression  of  that  jeering  frontier  mob  faded;  and 
in  its  stead,  looming  bigger  and  bigger,  advancing, 
enfolding  like  a  storm  cloud  until  it  blotted  out  every 
other  thought,  came  realisation  of  the  thing  she  had 
done :  came  appreciation  of  its  finality,  its  immensity. 
Then  it  was  that  the  infinite  bigness  of  this  unin 
habited  wild,  the  sense  of  its  infinite  loneliness,  pressed 
her  close.  Despite  herself,  against  all  reason,  as  a 


The  Mystery  of  Solitude  201 

child  is  afraid  of  the  dark  there  grew  upon  her  a 
terror  of  this  intangible  thing  called  solitude  that 
stretched  out  into  the  future  endlessly.  Smiling  as 
it  was  this  day,  unchangeably  smiling,  she  fancied  a 
cime  when  it  would  not  smile,  when  its  passive  event 
less  monotony  would  be  maddening.  Swiftly,  cumu 
latively  as  with  every  intense  nature  impressions 
reproduce,  this  one  augmented.  Again  into  the  con 
sideration  intruded  the  absolute  finality,  the  irrevoca 
bility  of  her  choice.  More  distinctly  than  when  she 
had  listened  to  the  original,  memory  recalled  the  vow 
of  the  marriage  ceremony  she  had  taken :  "  For  better 
or  for  worse,  in  sickness  or  in  health,  until  death  do 
us  part."  No,  there  was  no  escape,  no  possible 
avenue  that  remained  unguarded.  The  knowledge 
overwhelmed  her,  suffocated  her.  Vague  possibili 
ties,  recently  born,  became  realities.  Closer  and 
closer  gripped  the  solitude.  For  the  first  time  in  her 
existence  the  dead  surrounding  silence  became  un* 
bearable.  Almost  desperately  she  shifted  back  in 
her  seat.  Instinctively  she  sought  the  hand  of  her 
companion,  pressed  it  tight.  A  mist  came  into  her 
eyes,  until  the  very  team  itself  was  blotted  out. 
"  Oh,  How,"  she  confessed  tensely,  "  I'm  afraid!  " 
The  man  roused,  as  one  recalled  from  reverie,  as 
one  awakened  but  not  yet  completely  returned. 
"  Afraid,  Bess?  Afraid  of  what?  " 
"  Of  the  silence,  of  the  future;  of  you,  a  bit." 
"Afraid  of  me,  Bess?"  Perplexed,  wondering, 
the  man  held  the  team  to  a  walk  and  simultaneously 


202  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

the  side  curtains  ceased  flapping,  hung  close.  "  I 
don't  think  I  understand.  Tell  me  why,  Bess." 

"  I  can't.  A  child  doesn't  know  why  it's  afraid 
of  the  dark.  The  dark  has  never  hurt  it.  It 
merely  is." 

At  her  side  the  man  sat  looking  at  her.  He  did 
not  touch  her,  he  did  not  move.  In  the  time  since 
they  had  come  into  his  own  a  wonderful  change  had 
come  into  the  face  of  this  Indian  man;  and  never  was 
it  so  wonderful  as  at  this  moment.  He  still  wore 
the  grotesque  ready-made  clothes.  The  high  collar, 
galling  to  him  as  a  bridle  to  an  unbroken  cayuse,  had 
made  a  red  circle  about  his  throat;  yet  of  it  and  of 
them  he  was  oblivious.  Very,  very  young  he  looked 
at  this  time ;  fairly  boyish.  There  was  a  colour  in  his 
beardless  cheeks  higher  than  the  bronze  of  his  race. 
The  black  eyes  were  soft  as  a  child's,  trusting  as  a 
child's.  In  the  career  of  every  human  being  there 
comes  a  time  supreme,  a  climax,  a  period  of  exaltation 
to  which  memory  will  ever  after  recur,  which  serves 
as  a  standard  of  happiness  absolute;  and  in  the  career 
of  How  Landor  the  hour  had  struck.  This  he  knew; 
and  yet,  knowing,  he  could  scarcely  credit  the  truth. 
His  cup  of  happiness  was  full,  full  to  overflowing; 
yet  he  was  almost  afraid  to  put  it  to  his  lips  for  fear 
it  would  vanish,  lest  it  should  prove  a  myth. 

Thus  he  sat  there,  this  Indian  man  with  whom  fate 
was  jesting,  worshipping  with  a  faith  and  love  more 
intense  than  a  Christian  for  his  God;  yet,  with  instinc 
tive  reticence,  worshipping  with  closed  lips.  Thus 


The  Mystery  of  Solitude  203 

the  minutes  passed;  minutes  of  silence  wherein  he 
should  have  been  eloquent,  minutes  that  held  an  op 
portunity  that  would  never  be  his  again.  Smiling, 
ironic,  fate  the  satirist  looked  on  at  her  handiwork, 
watched  to  the  end;  and  then,  observing  that  finale, 
laughed — and  with  the  voice  of  Elizabeth  Landor. 

"  Don't  work  at  it  any  more,  How,"  derided  des 
tiny.  "  You  don't  understand,  and  I  can't  tell  you." 

She  straightened  in  her  seat  and  shrugged  her 
shoulders  with  a  gesture  she  had  never  used  before, 
that  had  come  very  lately:  come  concomitantly  with 
the  arrival  of  the  woman  Elizabeth.  "  Anyway,  I 
think  it  will  be  all  right.  I  at  least  am  not  afraid 
of  your  eloping  with  someone  else."  She  laughed 
again  at  the  thought  and  folded  her  hands  carefully 
in  her  lap.  "  It's  quite  impossible  to  think  of  you 
interfering  with  the  property  of  someone  else;  even 
though  that  property  were  a  girl." 

Mechanically  the  Indian  chirruped  to  the  team  and 
shook  the  reins.  On  his  face  the  look  of  perplexity 
deepened.  Instinctively  he  realised  that  something 
was  wrong;  but  how  to  set  it  right  he  did  not  know, 
and,  true  to  his  instincts,  waited. 

u  You  wouldn't  be  afraid  in  the  least  to  do  so," 
wandered  on  the  girl,  "  even  though  the  woman  were 
another  man's  wife.  You  aren't  afraid  of  anything. 
You'd  take  her  from  before  his  very  eyes  if  you'd 
decided  to  do  so,  if  you  saw  fit.  It's  not  that.  It 
merely  would  never  occur  to  you;  not  even  as  possi 
bility." 


204  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

Still  groping,  the  man  looked  at  her,  looked  at 
her  full;  but  no  light  came. 

"  Yes,  you're  right,  Bess,"  he  corroborated  halt 
ingly.  u  It  would  never  occur  to  me  to  do  so." 

More  ironically  than  before  laughed  fate;  and 
again  with  the  voice  of  Elizabeth  Landor. 

'  You're  humorous,  How,  deliciously  humor 
ous;  and  still  you  haven't  the  vestige  of  a  sense  of 
humour."  She  laughed  again  involuntarily.  "  I 
hadn't  myself  a  few  weeks  ago.  I  think  I  was  even 

more  deficient  than  you ;  but  now — now "     Once 

again  the  tense-strung  laugh,  while  in  her  lap  the 
crossed  hands  locked  and  grew  white  from  mutual 
pressure.  "  Now  of  a  sudden  I  seem  to  see  humour 
in  everything !  " 

More  than  perplexed,  concerned,  distressed  from 
his  very  inability  to  fathom  the  new  mood,  the  man 
again  brought  the  team  to  a  walk,  fumbled  with  the 
reins  impotently. 

"  Something's  wrong,  Bess,"  he  hesitated.  "  Some 
thing's  worrying  you.  Tell  me  what  it  is,  won't 
you?" 

"Wrong?"  The  girl  returned  the  look  fair, 
almost  defiantly.  "Wrong?"  Still  again  the  laugh ; 
unmusical,  hysterical.  "  Certainly  nothing  is  wrong. 
What  could  be  wrong  when  two  people  who  have  so 
much  in  common  as  you  and  I,  who  touch  at  so 
many  places,  are  just  married  and  alone?  Wrong: 
the  preposterous  idea  !  " 

She  was  silent,  and  of  a  sudden  the  all-surrounding 


The  Mystery  of  Solitude  205 

stillness  seemed  to  be  intensified.  For  at  last,  at  last 
the  man  understood  and  was  looking  at  her;  looking 
at  her  wordlessly,  with  an  expression  that  was  terrible 
in  its  haunting  suggestion  of  unutterable  sadness,  of 
infinite  pain.  He  did  not  say  a  word;  he  merely 
looked  at  her;  but  shade  by  shade  as  the  seconds 
passed  there  vanished  from  his  face  to  the  last  bit 
every  trace  of  the  glory  that  had  been  its  predecessor. 
Not  until  it  was  gone  did  the  girl  realise  to  the  full 
what  she  had  done,  realise  the  mortal  stab  she  had 
inflicted;  then  of  a  sudden  came  realisation  in  a  gust 
and  contrition  unspeakable.  Swiftly  as  rain  follows 
a  thunderclap  her  mood  changed,  her  own  face,  hys 
terically  tense,  relaxed  in  a  flood  of  tears.  In  an 
abandon  of  remorse  her  arms  were  about  him,  her 
face  was  pressed  close  to  his  face. 

"  Forgive  me,  How,"  she  pleaded.  "  I  didn't 
mean  to  hurt  you.  I'm  nervous  and  irresponsible, 
that's  all.  Please  forgive  me;  please!" 

At  a  dawdling  little  prairie  stream,  superciliously 
ignored  by  the  map-maker,  yet  then  and  now  travel 
ling  its  aimless  journey  from  nowhere  to  nowhere 
under  the  name  of  Mink  Creek,  they  halted  for  the 
night. 

Though  they  had  been  driving  steadily  all  the 
afternoon,  save  once  when,  far  to  the  south,  they 
had  detected  the  blot  of  a  grazing  herd,  they  had  seen 
no  sign  of  human  presence.  They  saw  no  indication 
now.  The  short  fall  day  was  drawing  to  a  close. 


206  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

The  sun,  red  as  maple  leaf  in  autumn,  was  level  witK 
the  earth  when  How  Landor  pulled  up  beside  the  low 
sloping  bank,  and,  the  girl  watching  from  her  ob 
servation  seat  in  the  old  surrey,  unharnessed  and 
watered  the  team  and  hobbled  them  amid  the  tall 
frost-cured  grass  to  feed. 

"  Now  for  the  tent,"  he  said  on  returning.  "  Will 
your  highness  have  it  face  north,  south,  east,  or 
west?" 

"  East,  please,  How.  I  want  to  see  the  sun  when 
it  first  comes  up  in  the  morning." 

With  the  methodical  swiftness  of  one  accustomed 
to  his  work  the  man  set  about  his  task.  The  tent, 
his  own,  was  in  the  rear  of  the  waggon  box.  The 
furnishings,  likewise  his  own,  were  close  packed  be 
side.  More  quickly  than  the  watcher  fancied  it 
possible  the  whole  began  to  take  shape.  Long  before 
the  glory  had  left  the  western  sky  the  tent  itself  was 
in  place.  Before  the  chill,  which  followed  so  in 
evitably  and  swiftly,  was  in  the  air  the  diminutive 
soft  coal  heater  was  installed  and  in  service.  Fol 
lowing,  produced  from  the  same  receptacle  as  by 
legerdemain,  vanishing  mysteriously  within  the  mush 
room  house,  followed  the  blanket  bed,  the  buffalo 
robes,  the  folding  chairs  and  table,  the  frontier 
"  grub  "  chest.  Last  of  all,  signal  to  the  world  that 
the  task  was  complete,  the  battered  lantern  with  the 
tin  reflector  was  trimmed  and  lit  and,  adding  the  final 
touch  of  comfort  and  of  intimacy  that  light  alone 
can  give,  was  hung  from  its  old  hook  on  the  ridge 


The  Mystery  of  Solitude  207 

pole.  Then  at  last,  the  first  shadows  of  night  steal 
ing  over  the  soundless  earth,  the  man  approached  the 
lone  spectator  and  held  out  his  arms  for  her  to 
descend. 

"  Come,  Bess,"  he  said.  He  smiled  up  at  her  as 
only  such  a  man  at  such  a  time  can  smile.  a  This  is 
my  night.  I'm  going  to  do  everything;  cook  supper 
and  all.  Come,  girlie." 

•  •  •  •  • 

The  meal  was  over,  and  again,  as  on  that  other  oc 
casion  when  Colonel  William  Landor  had  called,  the 
two  people  within  the  tent  occupied  the  same  positions. 
In  the  folding  rocking  chair  sat  the  girl,  the  light 
from  the  single  lantern  playing  upon  her  brown  head 
and  soft  oval  face.  In  the  partial  darkness  of  the 
corner,  stretched  among  the  buffalo  robes,  lay  the 
man.  His  arms  were  locked  behind  his  head.  His 
face  was  toward  her.  His  eyes — eyes  unbelievably 
soft  and  innocent  for  a  mature  man — were  upon  her. 
As  he  had  said,  this  was  his  night,  and  he  was  living 
in  it  to  the  full.  Ever  taciturn  with  her  as  with 
others,  he  was  at  this  time  even  more  silent  than  usual, 
silent  in  a  happiness  which  made  words  seem  sacri 
lege.  He  merely  looked  at  her,  wonderingly,  wor 
ship  fully,  with  the  mute  devotion  of  a  dog  for  its 
master,  as  a  devout  Catholic  gazes  upon  the  image  of 
the  Virgin  Mother.  Since  they  had  entered  the  tent 
he  had  scarcely  spoken  more  than  a  single  sentence 
at  a  time.  Only  once  had  he  given  a  glimpse  of  him 
self.  Then  he  had  apologised  for  the  meagreness  of 


208  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

the  meal.  "  To-morrow,"  he  had  said,  "  we  will 
have  game,  the  country  is  full  of  it;  but  to-day — "  he 
had  looked  down  as  he  had  spoken — "  to-day  I  felt 
somehow  as  though  I  could  not  kill  anything.  Life 
is  too  good  to  destroy,  to-day." 

Thus  he  lay  there  now,  motionless,  wordless,  ob 
livious  of  passing  time;  and  now  and  then  in  her 
place  the  girl's  eyes  lifted,  found  him  gazing  at  her — 
and  each  time  looked  away.  For  some  reason  she 
could  not  return  that  look.  For  some  reason  as  each 
time  she  caught  it,  read  its  meaning,  her  brown  face 
grew  darker.  As  truly  as  out  there  on  the  prairie 
she  was  afraid  of  the  infinite  solitude,  she  was  afraid 
now  of  the  worship  that  gaze  implied.  She  had 
awakened,  had  Elizabeth  Landor;  and  in  the  depths 
of  her  own  soul  she  knew  she  was  not  worthy  of  such 
love,  such  confidence  absolute.  She  expected  it,  she 
wanted  it — and  still  she  did  not  want  it.  She  longed 
for  oblivion  such  as  his,  oblivion  of  all  save  the  pass 
ing  minute ;  and  it  was  not  hers.  Prescience,  without 
a  reason  therefor  which  she  would  admit,  prevented 
forgetfulness.  She  tried  to  shake  the  impression  off; 
but  it  clung  tenaciously.  Instinctively,  almost  under 
compulsion,  she  even  went  ahead  to  meet  it,  to  pre 
pare  the  way. 

"  You  mustn't  look  at  me  that  way,  How,"  she 
laughed  at  last  forcedly.  "  It  makes  me  afraid  of 
myself — afraid  of  dropping.  Supposing  I  should 
fall,  from  up  in  the  sky  where  you  fancy  I  am !  No 
one,  not  even  you,  could  ever  put  the  pieces  together.1' 


The  Mystery  of  Solitude  209 

"Fall,"  smiled  the  man,  "you  fall?  You 
wouldn't;  but  if  you  did,  I'd  be  there  to  catch 
you." 

"  Then  you,  too,  would  be  in  fragments.  I'm 
very,  very  far  above  earth,  you  know." 

"  I'd  want  to  be  so,  if  you  fell,"  said  the  man. 
"  You're  all  there  is  in  the  world,  all  there  is  in  life, 
for  me.  I'd  want  to  be  annihilated,  too,  then." 

The  girl's  hands  folded  in  her  lap;  as  they  had 
done  that  afternoon,  very  carefully. 

"  You  don't  know  me  even  yet,  How,"  she  guided 
on.  "  You  think  I'm  perfect,  but  I'm  not.  I  know 
I'm  very,  very  human,  very — bad  at  times." 

The  other  smiled;  that  was  all. 

"  I'm  liable  to  do  anything,  be  anything.  I'm 
liable  to  even  fancy  I  don't  like  you  and  run  away." 

"  If  you  did  you'd  return  very  soon." 

"Return?"  She  looked  at  him  fully.  "You 
think  so?" 

"  I  know  so." 

"Why,  How?" 

"  Because  you  care  for  me." 

"  But  it  would  be  because  I  didn't  care  for  you 
that  I'd  go,  you  know." 

"  You'd  find  your  mistake  and  come  back." 

The  clasped  hands  locked,  as  once  before  they  had! 
done. 

"  And  when  I  did — come  back — you'd  forgive 
me,  How?" 

"  There'd  be  nothing  to  forgive.". 


2io  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

"  It  wouldn't  be  wrong — to  leave  you  that  way?  " 

"  To  me  you  could  do  no  wrong,  Bess." 

"  Not  if  I  did  anything,  if  I — ran  away  with 
another  man  ?  " 

The  listener  smiled,  until  the  beardless  face  was 
very,  very  boyish. 

"  I  can't  imagine  the  impossible,  Bess." 

"But  just  supposing  I  should?"  insistently. 
"  You'd  take  me  back,  no  matter  what  I'd  done, 
and  forgive  me  ?  " 

For  a  half  minute  wherein  the  smile  slowly  van 
ished  from  his  face  the  man  did  not  answer,  merely 
looked  at  her;  then  for  the  first  time  since  they  had 
been  speaking  his  eyes  dropped. 

"  I  could  forgive  you  anything,  Bess;  but  to  take 
you  back,  to  have  everything  go  on  as  before — I  am 
human.  I  could  not." 

A  moment  longer  the  two  remained  so,  each  star 
ing  at  their  feet;  then  of  a  sudden,  interrupting, 
the  girl  laughed,  unmusically,  hysterically. 

"  I'm  glad  you  said  that,  How,"  she  exulted; 
"  glad  I  compelled  you  to  say  it.  As  you  confess, 
it  makes  you  seem  more  human.  A  god  shouldn't 
marry  a  mortal,  you  know." 

The  man  looked  up  gravely,  but  he  said  nothing. 

"  I'm  going  to  make  you  answer  me  just  one  more 
thing,"  rushed  on  the  girl,  "  and  then  I'm  satisfied. 
You'd  forgive  me,  you  say,  forgive  me  anything;  but 
how  about  the  other  man,  the  one  who  had  induced 
me  to  run  away?  Would  you  forgive  him,  too?.  " 


The  Mystery  of  Solitude  211 

Silence,  dead  silence;  but  this  time  the  Indian's  eyes 
did  not  drop. 

"  You  may  as  well  tell  me,  How.  I'm  irresponsi 
ble  to-night  and  I  won't  give  you  any  peace  until 
you  do.  Would  you  forgive  the  other  man,  too?  " 

Once  more  for  seconds  there  was  a  lapse;  then 
slowly  the  Indian  lifted  in  his  place,  lifted  until  he 
was  sitting,  lifted  until  his  face  stood  out  clear  in  the 
light  like  the  carving  of  a  master. 

"  Forgive  hint)  Bess?  "  A  pause.  "  Do  you  think 
I  am  a  god?  " 

That  was  all,  neither  an  avowal  nor  a  denial;  yet 
no  human  being  looking  at  the  speaker  that  moment 
would  have  pressed  the  query  farther,  no  human 
being  could  have  misread  the  answer.  With  the 
same  little  hysterical,  unnatural  laugh  the  girl  sank 
back  in  her  seat.  The  tense  hands  went  lax. 

"  I'll  be  good  now,  How,"  she  said  dully.  "  One 
isn't  married  every  day,  you  know,  and  it's  got  on  my 
nerves.  I'm  finding  out  a  lot  of  things  lately,  and 
that's  one  of  them:  that  I  have  nerves.  I  never 
supposed  before  that  I  possessed  them." 

Deliberately,  without  a  shade  of  hesitation  or  of 
uncertainty,  the  man  arose.  As  deliberately  he 
walked  over  and  very,  very  gently  lifted  the  girl  to 
her  feet. 

"  Bess,"  he  said  low,  "  there's  something  that's 
troubling  you,  something  you'd  feel  better  to  tell 
me.  Don't  you  trust  me  enough  to  tell  me  now, 
girlie?" 


212  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

Very  long  they  stood  so,  face  to  face.  For  a  time 
the  girl  did  not  look  up,  merely  stood  there,  her 
fingers  locked  behind  her  back,  her  long  lashes  all  but 
meeting;  then  of  a  sudden,  swiftly  as  the  passing 
shadow  of  an  April  cloud,  the  mood  changed,  she 
glanced  up. 

"  I  thought  I  could  scare  you,  How,"  she  joyed 
softly,  "  and  I  have."  She  smiled  straight  into  his 
eyes.  "  I  wanted  to  see  how  much  you  cared  for  me, 
was  all.  IVe  found  out.  There's  absolutely  noth 
ing  to  tell,  How,  man;  absolutely  nothing." 

For  another  half  minute  the  man  looked  at  her 
deeply,  silently;  but,  still  smiling,  she  answered  him 
back,  and  with  a  last  lingering  grip  that  was  a  caress 
his  hands  dropped. 

"  I  trust  you,  Bess,  completely,"  he  said.  "  It 
makes  me  unhappy  to  feel  that  you  are  unhappy, 
is  all." 

"  I  know,  How."  Tears  were  on  the  long  lashes 
now,  tears  that  came  so  easily.  "  I'll  try  not  to  be 
bad  again."  She  touched  his  sleeve.  "  I'm  very 
tired  now  and  sleepy.  You'll  forgive  me  this  once 
again,  won't  you?  " 

"Forgive  you! — Bess!"  She  was  in  his  arms, 
pressed  close  to  his  breast,  the  presence  of  her,  in 
tense,  feminine,  intoxicating  him,  bearing  him  as  the 
fruit  of  the  poppy  to  oblivion.  "  God,  girl,  if  you 
could  only  realise  how  I  love  you.  I  can't  tell  you; 
I  can't  say  things;  but  if  you  could  only  realise!  " 

Passionate,  throbbing,  the  girl's  face  lifted.    Her 


The  Mystery  of  Solitude  213 

great  brown  eyes,  sparkling  wet,  glorious,  looked  into 
his  eyes.     Her  lips  parted. 

"  Say  that  again,  How,"  she  whispered,  "  only  say 
that  again.  Tell  me  that  you  love  me.  Tell  me! 
tell  me  1" 


Chapter  XIV 

FATE,  THE   SATIRIST 

FOUR  months  drifted  by.  The  will  of  Colonel  Wil 
liam  Landor  had  been  read  and  executed.  According 
to  its  provisions  the  home  ranch  with  one-tenth  of  the 
herd,  divided  impartially  as  they  filed  past  the  ex 
ecutor,  were  left  to  Mary  Landor;  in  event  of  her 
death  to  descend  to  "  an  only  nephew,  Clayton  Craig 
by  name."  A  second  fraction  of  the  great  herd,  a 
tenth  of  the  remainder,  selected  in  the  same  manner, 
reverted  at  once  "  unqualifiedly  and  with  full  title 
to  hold  or  to  sell  to  the  aforementioned  sole  blood 
relative,  Clayton  Craig."  All  of  the  estate  not  pre 
viously  mentioned,  the  second  ranch  whereon  How 
Landor  had  builded,  various  chattels  enumerated,  a 
small  sum  of  money  in  a  city  bank,  and  the  balance  of 
the  herd,  whose  number  the  testator  himself  could 
not  give  with  certainty,  were  willed  likewise  un 
qualifiedly  to  "  my  adopted  daughter,  Elizabeth 
Landor."  That  was  all.  A  single  sheet  of  greasy 
note  paper,  a  collection  of  pedantic  antiquated 
phrases,  penned  laboriously  with  the  scrawling 
hand  of  one  unused  to  writing;  but  incontroverti 
ble  in  its  laconic  directness.  Save  these  three  no 
other  names  were  mentioned.  So  far  as  the  Indian 
Ma-wa-cha-sa,  commonly  called  Howi  Landor,  was 

214 


Fate,  the  Satirist 

concerned  he  might  never  have  existed.  In  a  hundred 
words  the  labour  was  complete ;  and  at  its  end,  before 
the  single  sheet  was  covered,  sprawling,  character 
istic,  was  the  last  signature  of  him  who  at  the  time 
was  the  biggest  cattleman  west  of  the  river:  William 
Landor  of  the  Buffalo  Butte. 

Craig  himself  did  not  appear,  either  at  the  reading 
or  the  execution.  Instead  a  dapper  city  attorney 
with  a  sarcastic  tongue  and  an  isolated  manner  was 
present  to  conserve  his  interests;  and,  satisfied  on  that 
score,  and  ere  the  supply  of  Havanas  in  a  beautifully 
embossed  leather  case  was  exhausted,  in  fact,  to 
quote  his  own  words,  "  as  quickly  as  a  kind  Provi 
dence  would  permit,"  he  vanished  into  the  unknown 
from  whence  he  came.  Following,  on  the  next  train, 
came  a  big-voiced,  red-bearded  Irishman  who  pro 
claimed  himself  the  new  foreman  and  immediately 
took  possession.  Simultaneously  there  disappeared 
from  the  scene  the  Buffalo  Butte  ranch  and  the  brand 
by  which  it  had  been  known;  and  in  its  place 
upon  the  flank  of  every  live  thing  controlled,  stared 
forth  a  C  locked  to  a  C(C-C)  :  the  heraldry  of  the 
new  master,  Clayton  Craig. 

Likewise  the  long-planned  wedding  journey  had 
taken  place  and  become  a  memory.  Into  the  silent 
places  they  went,  this  new-made  man  and  wife — and 
no  one  was  present  at  the  departure  to  bid  them 
adieu.  Back  from  the  land  of  nothingness  they 
came — and  again  no  one  was  at  hand  to  welcome 
their  return.  In  but  one  respect  did  the  accomplish- 


2i 6  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

ment  of  that  plan  alter  from  the  prearranged;  and 
that  one  item  was  the  consideration  of  time.  They 
did  not  stay  away  until  winter,  as  the  girl  had  an 
nounced.  Starting  in  November,  they  did  not  com 
plete  the  month.  Nor  did  they  stay  for  more  than  a 
day  in  any  one  spot.  Like  the  curse  of  the  Wander 
ing  Jew,  a  newborn  restlessness  in  the  girl  kept  call 
ing  "  On,  on."  Battle  against  it  as  she  might,  she 
was  powerless  under  its  dominance.  She  knew  not 
from  whence  had  come  the  change,  nor  why;  but  that 
in  the  last  weeks  she  had  altered  fundamentally,  un 
believably,  she  could  not  question.  The  very  first 
night  out,  ere  they  had  slept,  she  had  begun  to  talk  of 
change  on  the  morrow.  The  next  day  it  was  the 
same — and  the  next.  When  they  were  moving  the 
morbid  restlessness  gradually  wore  away;  for  the 
time  being  she  became  her  old  careless-happy  self; 
and  in  sympathy  her  companion  opened  as  a  flower  to 
the  sun.  Then  would  come  a  pause ;  and  the  morbid, 
dogging  spirit  of  unrest  would  close  upon  her  anew. 
Thus  day  by  day  passed  until  a  week  had  gone  by. 
Then  one  morning  when  camp  was  struck,  instead  of 
advancing  farther,  the  man  had  faced  back  the  way 
they  had  come.  He  made  no  comment,  nor  did  she. 
Neither  then  nor  in  days  that  followed  did  he  once 
allude  to  the  reason  that  had  caused  the  change  of 
plan.  When  the  girl  was  gay,  he  was  gay  likewise. 
When  she  lapsed  listlessly  into  the  slough  of  silence 
and  despond,  he  went  on  precisely  as  though  uncon 
scious  of  a  change.  His  acting,  for  acting  it  was, 


Fate,  the  Satirist  217 

even  the  girl  could  not  but  realise  at  that  time,  was 
masterly.  What  he  was  thinking  no  human  being 
ever  knew,  no  human  being  could  ever  know ;  for  he 
never  gave  the  semblance  of  a  hint.  Probably  not 
since  man  and  woman  began  under  the  sanction  of 
law  and  of  clergy  to  mate,  had  there  been  such  a 
honeymoon.  Probably  never  will  there  be  such 
another.  That  the  whole  expedition  was  a  pit 
eous,  dreary  failure  neither  could  have  doubted  ere 
the  first  week  dragged  by.  That  the  marriage  jour 
ney  which  it  ushered  in  was  to  be  a  failure  likewise, 
neither  could  have  questioned,  ere  the  second  week, 
which  brought  them  home,  had  passed.  The  Garden 
of  Eden  was  there,  there  as  certainly  in  its  frost- 
brown  sun-blessed  perfection  as  though  spread  lux 
uriously  within  the  tropics.  Adam  was  there,  Adam 
prepared  to  accept  it  as  normally  content  as  the  first 
man ;  but  Eve  was  not  satisfied.  Within  the  garden 
the  serpent  had  shown  his  face  and  tempted  her. 
For  very,  very  long  she  would  not  admit  the  fact 
even  to  herself,  deluded  herself  by  the  belief  that 
this  newborn  discontent  was  but  temporary;  yet  bald, 
unaltering  as  the  prairie  itself,  the  truth  stood  forth. 
Thus  they  went,  and  thus  they  returned.  Thus  again 
thereafter  the  days  went  monotonously  by. 

One  bright  spot,  and  one  alone,  appeared  on  their 
firmament;  and  that  was  the  opening  of  the  new 
house.  This  was  to  be  a  surprise,  a  climax  boyishly 
reserved  by  its  builder  for  their  return.  The  man 
had  intentionally  so  arranged  that  the  start  should  be 


218  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

from  the  old  ranch,  and  in  consequence  the  girl  had 
never  seen  either  the  new  or  its  furnishings,  until  the 
November  day  when  the  overloaded  surrey  drew  up 
in  the  dooryard,  and  the  journey  was  complete. 
Pathetic,  indescribable,  in  the  light  of  the  past,  in 
the  memory  of  the  solitary  hours  that  frontier  nest 
represented,  the  moment  must  have  been  to  the  man 
when  he  led  the  way  to  the  entrance  and  turned  the 
key.  Yet  he  smiled  as  he  threw  open  the  door;  and, 
standing  there,  ere  she  entered,  he  kissed  her. 

"  It  isn't  much,  but  it  was  mine,  Bess,  and  now  it's 
yours,"  he  said,  and,  her  hand  in  his,  he  crossed  the 
threshold. 

A  moment  the  girl  stood  staring  around  her. 
Crude  as  everything  was,  and  cheap  in  aggregate,  it 
spoke  a  testimony  that  was  overwhelming.  Never 
before,  not  even  that  first  night  they  had  been  alone, 
had  the  girl  realise*!  as  at  this  moment  what  she  meant 
to  this  solitary,  impassive  human.  Never  before  un 
til  these  mute  things  he  had  fashioned  with  his  own 
hands  stood  before  her  eyes  did  she  realise  fully  his 
love.  With  the  knowledge  now  came  a  flood  of  re 
pentance  and  of  appreciation.  Her  arms  flew  about 
his  neck.  Her  wet  face  was  hid. 

"  How  you  love  me,  man,"  she  voiced.  "  How 
you  love  me  !  " 

"Yes,  Bess,"  said  the  other  simply;  and  that  was 
all. 

For  that  day,  and  the  next,  and  the  next,  the  mood 
lasted,  an  awakening  the  girl  began  to  fancy  perma- 


Fate,  the  Satirist  219 

nent;  then  inevitably  came  the  reaction.  The  man 
took  up  his  duties  where  he  had  laid  them  down;  the 
supervision  of  a  herd  scattered  of  necessity  to  the 
winds,  the  personal  inspection  of  a  range  that 
stretched  away  for  miles.  Soon  after  daylight,  his 
lunch  for  the  day  packed  in  the  pouch  he  slung  over 
his  shoulder,  he  left  astride  the  mouse-coloured,  sad- 
dleless  broncho ;  not  to  return  until  dark  or  later,  tired 
and  hungry,  but  ever  smiling  at  the  home-coming, 
ever  considerate.  Thus  the  third  night  he  returned 
to  find  the  house  dark  and  the  fire  in  the  soft  coal  stove 
dead;  to  find  this  and  the  girl  stretched  listless  on 
the  bed  against  the  wall,  staring  wide-eyed  into  the 
darkness. 

"  I  was  tired  and  resting,  How,"  she  had  explained 
penitently,  and  gone  about  the  task  of  preparing 
supper;  but  the  man  was  not  deceived,  and  that 
moment,  if  not  before,  he  recognised  the  inevitable. 

Yet  even  then  he  made  no  comment,  nor  altered  in 
the  minutest  detail  his  manner.  If  ever  a  human 
being  played  the  game,  it  was  How  Landor.  With 
a  blindness  that  was  masterly,  that  was  all  but  fatuous, 
he  ignored  the  obvious.  His  equanimity  and  patience 
were  invulnerable.  Silent  by  nature,  he  grew  fairly 
loquacious  in  an  effort  to  be  companionable.  Prob 
ably  no  white  man  alive  would  have  done  as  he  did, 
would  have  borne  what  he  did;  perhaps  it  would  have 
been  better  had  he  done  differently;  but  he  was  as  he 
was.  Day  after  day  he  endured  the  galling  starched 
linen  and  unaccustomed  clothing,  making  long  jour- 


22O  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

neys  to  the  distant  town  to  keep  his  wardrobe  cleat 
and  replenished.  Day  after  day  he  polished  his  boots 
and  struggled  with  his  cravat.  Puerile  unqualifiedly 
an  observer  would  have  characterised  this  repeated 
farce ;  but  to  one  who  knew  the  tale  in  its  entirety,  it 
would  have  seemed  very  far  from  humorous.  All  but 
sacrilege,  it  is  to  tell  of  this  starved  human's  doing  at 
this  time.  The  sublime  and  the  ridiculous  ever  elbow 
so  closely  in  this  life  and  jostled  so  continuously  in 
those  stormy  hours  of  How  Lander's  chastening. 
Suffice  it  to  repeat  that  every  second  through  it  all  he 
played  the  game;  played  it  with  a  smiling  face,  and 
the  ghost  of  a  jest  ever  trembling  on  his  lips.  Played 
it  from  the  moment  he  entered  his  house  until  the 
moment  he  daily  disappeared,  astride  the  vixenish  un 
dersized  cayuse.  Then  when  he  was  alone,  when 
there  were  no  human  eyes  to  observe,  to  pity  per 
chance,  then But  let  it  pass  what  he  did  then. 

It  is  another  tale  and  extraneous. 

Thus  drifted  by  the  late  fall  and  early  winter.  Bit 
by  bit  the  days  grew  shorter;  and  then  as  a  pendulum 
vibrates,  lengthened  shade  by  shade.  No  human 
being  came  their  way,  nor  wild  thing,  save  roving 
murderers  on  pillage  bent.  Even  the  cowmen  he 
employed,  the  old  hands  he  and  Bess  had  both  known 
for  years,  avoided  him  obviously,  stubbornly.  After 
the  execution  of  the  will  he  had  built  them  another 
ranch  house  at  a  distance  on  the  range,  and  there  they 
congregated  and  clung.  They  accepted  his  money 
and  obeyed  his  orders  unquestioningly ;  but  further 


Fate,  the  Satirist  221 

than  that — they  were  white  and  he  was  red. 
Howard,  the  one  man  with  whom  he  had  been 
friendly,  had  grown  restless  and  drifted  on — whither 
no  one  knew.  Save  for  the  Irish  overseer  and  one 
other  cowboy,  the  old  Buffalo  Butte  ranch  was  de 
serted.  Locally,  there  neither  was  nor  had  been 
any  outward  manifestation  of  hostility,  nor  even 
gossip.  But  the  olden  times  when  the  hospitable 
ranch  house  of  Colonel  William  Landor  was  the 
meeting  point  of  ranchers  within  a  radius  of  fifty  miles 
were  gone.  They  did  not  persecute  the  new  master 
or  his  white  wife;  they  did  a  subtler,  crueller  thing: 
they  ignored  them.  To  the  Indian's  face,  when  by 
infrequent  chance  they  met,  they  were  affable,  oblig 
ing.  His  reputation  had  spread  too  far  for  them  to 
appear  otherwise;  but,  again,  they  were  white  and  he 
was  red — and  between  them  the  chasm  yawned. 

Thus  passed  the  months.  Winter,  dead  and  re 
lentless,  held  its  sway.  It  was  a  normal  winter;  but 
ever  in  this  unprotected  land  the  period  was  one  of 
inevitable  decimation,  of  a  weeding  out  of  the  unfit. 
Here  and  there  upon  the  range,  dark  against  the  now 
background  of  universal  white,  stared  forth  the  car 
cass  of  a  weakling.  Over  it  for  a  few  nights  the 
coyotes  and  grey  wolves  howled  and  fought;  then 
would  come  a  fresh  layer  of  white,  and  the  spot  where 
it  had  been  would  merge  once  more  into  the  universal 
colour  scheme.  Even  the  prairie  chickens  vanished, 
migrated  to  southern  lands  where  corn  was  king.  No 
more  at  daylight  or  at  dusk  could  one  hear  the  whistle 


222  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

of  their  passing  wings,  or  the  booming  of  their  rally 
ing  call.  Magnificent  in  any  season,  this  impression 
of  the  wild  was  even  more  pronounced  now.  The 
thought  of  God  is  synonymous  with  immensity;  and 
so  being,  Deity  was  here  eternally  manifest,  ubiqui 
tous.  The  human  mind  could  not  conceive  a  more  in 
finite  bigness  than  this  gleaming  frost-bound  waste 
stretched  to  the  horizon  beneath  the  blazing  winter 
sun.  Magnificent  it  was  beyond  the  power  of  words 
to  describe;  but  lonely,  lonely.  Within  the  tiny  cot 
tage,  the  girl,  Bess,  drew  the  curtains  tight  over  the 
single  window  and  for  days  at  a  time  did  not  glance 
without. 

Then  at  last,  for  to  all  things  there  is  an  end,  came 
spring.  Long  before  it  arrived  the  Indian  knew  it 
was  coming,  read  incontestably  its  advance  signs.  No 
longer,  as  the  mouse-coloured  cayuse  bore  him  over 
the  range,  was  there  the  mellow  crunch  of  snow  un 
derfoot.  Instead  the  sound  was  crisp  and  sharp :  the 
crackling  of  ice  where  the  snow  had  melted  and  frozen 
again.  Distinct  upon  the  record  of  the  bleak  prairie 
page  appeared  another  sign  infallible.  Here  and 
there,  singly  and  en  masse,  wherever  the  herds  had 
grazed,  appeared  oblong  brown  blots  the  size  of  an 
animal's  body.  The  cattle  were  becoming  weak  under 
the  influence  of  prolonged  winter,  and  lay  down  fre 
quently  to  rest,  their  warm  bodies  branding  the  evi 
dence  with  melted  snow.  The  jack  rabbits,  ubiquitous 
on  the  ranges,  that  sprang  daily  almost  from  beneath 
the  pony's  feet,  were  changing  their  winter's  dress, 


Fate,  the  Satirist  223 

were  becoming  darker;  almost  as  though  soiled  by  a 
muddy  hand.  Here  and  there  on  the  high  places  the 
sparkling  white  was  giving  way  to  a  dull,  lustreless 
brown.  Gradually,  day  by  day,  as  though  they  were 
a  pestilence,  they  expanded,  augmented  until  they,  and 
not  the  white,  became  the  dominant  tone.  The  sun 
was  high  in  the  sky  now.  At  noontime  the  man's 
shadow  was  short,  scarcely  extended  back  of  his  pony's 
feet.  Mid-afternoons,  in  the  low  places  when  he 
passed  through,  there  was  a  spattering  of  snow  water 
collected  in  tiny  puddles.  After  that  there  was  no 
need  of  signs.  Realities  were  everywhere.  Dips  in 
the  rolling  land,  mere  dry  runs  save  at  this  season, 
became  creeks;  flushed  to  their  capacity  and  beyond, 
sang  softly  all  the  day  long.  Not  only  the  high  spots, 
but  even  the  north  slopes  lost  their  white  blankets, 
surrendered  to  the  conquering  brown.  Migratory 
life,  long  absent,  returned  to  its  own.  Prairie  kites 
soared  far  overhead  on  motionless  wings.  Meadow 
larks,  cheeriest  of  heralds,  practised  their  five-toned 
lay.  Here  and  there,  to  the  north  of  prairie  boulders, 
appeared  tufts  of  green;  tufts  that,  like  the  preceding 
brown,  grew  and  grew  and  grew  until  they  dominated 
the  whole  landscape.  Then  at  last,  the  climax,  the 
finale  of  the  play,  came  life,  animal  and  vegetable, 
with  a  rush.  Again  at  daylight  and  at  dusk  swarms 
of  black  dots  on  whistling  wings  floated  here  and 
there,  descended  to  earth;  and,  following,  indefinite 
as  to  location,  weird,  lonely,  boomed  forth  in  their 
mating  songs.  Transient,  shallow,  miniature  lakes 


224  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

swarmed  with  their  new-come  denizens.  Last  of  all, 
final  assurance  of  a  new  season's  advent,  by  day  and 
by  night,  swelling,  diminishing,  unfailingly  musical 
as  distant  chiming  bells,  came  the  sound  of  all  most 
typical  of  prairie  and  of  spring.  From  high  over 
head  in  the  blue  it  came,  often  so  high  that  the  eye 
could  not  distinguish  its  makers ;  yet  alway  distinctive, 
alway  hauntingly  mysterious.  "  Honk !  honk  1 
honk ! "  sounded  and  echoed  and  re-echoed  that 
heraldry  over  the  awakened  land.  "  Honk !  honk ! 
honk!  "  it  repeated;  and  listening  humans  smiled  and 
commented  unnecessarily  each  to  the  other:  "  Spring 
is  not  coming.  It  is  here." 


Chapter  XV 

THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE  OF  KNOWLEDGE 

A  SHAGGY  grey  wolf,  a  baby  no  longer  but  practically 
full  grown,  swung  slowly  along  the  beaten  trail  con 
necting  the  house  and  the  barn  as  the  stranger  ap 
peared.  He  did  not  run,  he  did  not  glance  behind, 
he  made  no  sound.  With  almost  human  dignity  he 
vacated  the  premises  to  the  newcomer.  Not  until 
he  reached  his  destination,  the  ill-lighted  stable,  did 
curiosity  get  the  better  of  prudence;  then,  safe  within 
the  doorway,  he  wheeled  about,  and  with  forelegs 
wide  apart  stood  staring  out,  his  long,  sensitive  nose 
taking  minutest  testimony. 

The  newcomer,  a  well-proportioned,  smooth-faced 
man  in  approved  riding  togs,  halted  likewise  and  re 
turned  the  look;  equally  minutely,  equally  suspi 
ciously.  The  horse  he  rode  was  one  of  a  kind  seldom 
seen  on  the  ranges :  a  thoroughbred  with  slender  legs 
and  sensitive  ears.  The  rider  sat  his  saddle  well; 
remarkably  well  for  one  obviously  from  another  life., 
Both  the  horse  and  man  were  immaculately  groomed/ 
At  a  distance  they  made  a  pleasant  picture,  one  fulfill 
ing  adequately  the  adjective  "  smart."  Not  until  an 
observer  was  near,  very  near,  could  the  looseness  of 
the  skin  beneath  the  man's  eyelids,  incongruous  with 
his  general  youth,  and  the  abnormal  nervous  twitch- 

225 


226  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

ing  of  a  muscle  here  and  there,  have  been  noted.  For 
perhaps  a  minute  he  sat  so,  taking  in  every  detail  of 
the  commonplace  surroundings.  Then,  apparently 
satisfied,  he  dismounted  and,  tying  the  animal  to  the 
wheel  of  an  old  surrey  drawn  up  in  the  yard,  he  ap 
proached  the  single  entrance  of  the  house  and  rapped. 

To  the  doorway  came  Elizabeth  Landor;  her 
sleeves  rolled  to  the  elbow,  a  frilled  apron  that 
reached  to  the  chin  protecting  a  plain  gingham  gown. 
A  moment  they  looked  at  each  other;  then  the  man's 
riding  cap  came  off  with  a  sweep  and  he  held  out  his 
hand. 

"  Bess!  "  he  said  intimately;  and  for  another  mo 
ment  that  was  all.  Then  he  looked  her  fair  between 
the  eyes.  "  I  came  to  see  your  husband,"  he  ex 
claimed.  "  Is  he  at  home?  " 

The  girl  showed  no  surprise,  ignored  the  out 
stretched  hand. 

"  I  was  expecting  you,"  she  said.  "  How  told  me 
last  night  that  you  had  returned." 

A  shade  of  colour  stole  into  the  man's  blonde 
cheeks  and  his  hand  dropped;  but  his  eyes  held  their 
place. 

"  Yes.  I  only  came  yesterday,"  he  returned. 
"  I've  a  little  business  to  talk  over  with  How.  That's 
why  I'm  here  this  morning.  Is  he  about?  " 

Just  perceptibly  the  girl  smiled;  but  she  made  no 
answer. 

"Don't  you  wish  to  be  friends,  Bess?"  persisted 
the  man.  "  Aren't  we  to  be  even  neighbourly?  " 


The  Fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge    227 

"  Neighbourly,  certainly.  I  have  no  desire  to  be 
otherwise." 

14  Why  don't  you  answer  me,  then?"  The  red 
shading  was  becoming  positive  now,  telltale.  "  Tell 
me  why,  please." 

"  Answer?  "  The  girl  rolled  down  one  sleeve  de 
liberately.  "  Answer?  "  She  undid  its  mate.  "  Do 
you  really  fancy,  cousin  by  courtesy,  that  after  I've 
lived  the  last  four  months  I'm  still  such  a  child  as 
lhat?  Do  you  really  wish  me  to  answer,  Neighbour 
Craig,  " 

For  the  first  time  the  man's  eyes  dropped.  Some 
silver  coins  in  his  trousers  pocket  jingled  as  he 
fingered  them  nervously.  Then  again  he  looked  up. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Bess,"  he  said.  "  I  saw  your 
husband  leave  an  hour  ago.  I  knew  he  wasn't  here." 
He  looked  her  straight  "  It  was  you  I  came  to  see. 
May  I  stay?" 

Again  the  girl  ignored  the  question. 

"  You  admit  then,"  she  smiled,  "  that  if  How  were 
here  you  wouldn't  have  come,  that  nothing  you 
know  of  could  have  made  you  come?  Let's  under 
stand  each  other  in  the  beginning.  You  admit 
this?" 

"  Yes,"  steadily,  "  I  admit  it.     May  I  stay?  " 

The  smile  left  the  girl's  lips.  She  looked  him  fair 
in  the  eyes;  silently,  deliberately,  with  an  intensity 
the  other  could  not  fathom,  could  not  even  vaguely 
comprehend.  Then  as  deliberated  she  released  him, 
looked  away. 


228  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

"  Yes,  you  may  stay,"  she  consented,  "if  you 
wish." 

"If  I  wish!"  Craig  looked  at  her  meaningly; 
:hen  with  an  obvious  effort  he  checked  himself 
"  Thank  you,"  he  completed  repressedly. 

This  time  the  girl  did  not  smile. 

"  Don't  you  realise  yet  that  sort  of  thing  is  use 
less?"  she  queried  unemotionally. 

It  was  the  man  this  time  who  was  silent. 

"  If  you  wish  to  stay,"  went  on  the  girl  monoto 
nously,  "  do  so;  but  for  once  and  all  do  away  with 
acting.  We're  neither  of  us  good,  we're  both  living 
a  lie;  but  at  least  we  understand  each  other.  Let's  not 
waste  energy  in  pretending — when  there's  no  one  to 
be  deceived." 

Just  for  a  second  the  man  stiffened.  The  histrionic 
was  too  much  a  part  of  his  life  to  shake  off  instantly. 
Then  he  laughed. 

"All  right,  Bess.  I  owe  you  another  apology,  I 
suppose.  Anyway  be  it  so.  And  now,  that  I'm  to 

stay "     A   meaning   glance   through   the   open 

door.     "  You  were  working,  weren't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Go  ahead,  then,  and  I'll  find  something  to  sit  on1 
and  watch.  You  remember  another  morning  once 
before,  don't  you — &  morning  before  you  grew 
up ." 

"  Perfectly." 

"  We'll  fancy  we're  back  there  again,  then. 
Come." 


The  Fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge    229 

"  I  am  quite  deficient  in  imagination." 

"  At  least,  though,  dishes  must  be  washed." 

"  Not  necessarily — this  moment  at  least.  They 
have  waited  before." 

"  But,  Bess,  on  the  square,  I  don't  wish  to  intrude 
or  interfere." 

"  You're  not  interfering.  I've  merely  chosen  to 
rest  a  bit  and  enjoy  the  sun."  She  indicated  the  step. 
"  Won't  you  be  seated?  They're  clean,  I  know.  I 
scrubbed  them  this  very  morning  myself." 

The  man  hesitated.     Then  he  sat  down. 

"  Bess,"  he  said,  "  you've  been  pretty  frank  with 
me  and  I'm  going  to  return  the  privilege.  I  don't 
understand  you  a  bit — the  way  you  are  now. 
You've  changed  terribly." 

"  Changed?  On  the  contrary  I'm  very  normal. 
I've  been  precisely  as  I  am  this  moment  for — a  life 


time." 


"  For — how  long,  Bess?  " 

"  A  lifetime,  I  think." 

"  For  four  months,  you  mean." 

"  Perhaps — it's  all  the  same." 

"  Since  you  did  a  foolish  thing?  " 

"  I  have  done  many  such." 

"  Since  the  last,  I  mean." 

"  No."  Just  perceptibly  the  lids  over  the  brown 
eyes  tightened.  "  The  last  was  when  I  asked  you  to 
sit  down.  I  have  not  changed  in  the  smallest  possible 
manner  since  then." 

The  man  inspected  his  boots. 


230  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

"Aren't  you,  too,  going  to  be  seated?"  he  sug 
gested  at  length. 

"Yes,  certainly.  To  tell  the  truth  I  thought  I 
was."  She  took  a  place  beside  him.  "  I  had  for 
gotten." 

They  sat  so,  the  man  observing  her  narrowly,  in 
real  perplexity. 

"Bess,"  he  initiated  baldly  at  last,  "you're  un 
happy." 

"  I  have  not  denied  it,"  evenly. 

The  visitor  caught  his  breath.  He  thought  he  was 
prepared  for  anything;  but  he  was  finding  his  mistake. 

a  This  life  you've — selected,  is  wearing  on  you," 
he  added.  '"  Frankly,  I  hardly  recognise  you,  you 
used  to  be  so  careless  and  happy." 

"  Frankly,"  echoed  the  girl,  "  you,  too,  have  al 
tered,  cousin  mine.  You're  dissipating.  Even  here 
one  grows  to  recognise  the  signs." 

The  man  flushed.  It  is  far  easier  in  this  world  to 
give  frank  criticism  than  to  receive  it. 

"  I  won't  endeavour  to  justify  myself,  Bess,"  he 
said  intimately,  "  nor  attempt  to  deny  it.  There  is 
a  reason,  however." 

"  I've  noticed,"  commented  his  companion,  "  thatj 
there  usually  is  an  explanation  for  everything  we  do  inj 
this  life." 

"  Yes.  And  in  this  instance  you  are  the  reason,1 
Bess." 

"  Thank  you."  A  pause.  "  I  suppose  I  should 
take  that  as  a  compliment." 


The  Fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge    231 

"  You  may  if  you  wish.  Leastways  it's  the 
truth." 

The  girl  locked  her  fingers  over  her  knees  and 
leaned  back  against  the  lintel  of  the  door.  She 
looked  very  young  that  moment — and  very  old. 

"And  your  reason ?"  persisted  the  man.  'You 
know  now  my  explanation  for  being — as  I  am. 
What  is  yours?  " 

"  Do  you  wish  a  compliment,  also,  Clayton 
Craig  ?»' 

"  I  wish  to  know  the  reason." 

"  Unfortunately  you  know  it  already.  Otherwise 
you  would  not  be  here." 

"  You  mean  it  is  this  lonely  life,  this  man  of 
another  race  you  have  married?  " 

"  No.  I  mean  the  thing  that  led  me  away  from 
this  life,  and — the  man  you  have  named." 

"  I  don't  believe  I  understand,  Bess." 

"  You  ought  to.  You  drank  me  dry  once,  every 
drop  of  confidence  I  possessed,  for  two  weeks." 

'*  You  mean  I  myself  am  the  cause,"  said  the  man 
low. 

"  I  repeat  you  have  the  compliment — if  you  con 
sider  it  such." 

Again  there  was  silence.  Within  the  stable  door, 
during  all  the  time,  the  grey  wolf  had  not  stirred. 
He  was  observing  them  now,  steadily,  immovably. 
Though  it  was  bright  sunlight  without,  against  the 
background  of  the  dark  interior  his  eyes  shone  as 
though  they  were  afire. 


232  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

"  Honestly,  Bess,'*  said  the  man,  low  as 
*'  I'm  sorry  if  I  have  made  you  unhappy." 

"  I  thought  we  had  decided  to  be  truthful  for 
once,"  answered  a  voice. 

"  You're  unjust,  horribly  unjust!  " 

"  No.  I  merely  understand  you — now.  You're 
not  sorry,  because  otherwise  you  wouldn't  be  here. 
You  wouldn't  dare  to  be  here — even  though  my  hus 
band  were  away." 

Again  instinctively  the  man's  face  reddened.  It 
was  decidedly  a  novelty  in  his  life  to  be  treated  as  he 
was  being  treated  this  day.  Ordinarily  glib  of  speech, 
for  some  reason  in  the  face  of  this  newfound  emo 
tionless  characterisation,  he  had  nothing  to  say.  It 
is  difficult  to  appear  what  one  is  not  in  the  blaze  of 
one's  own  fireside.  It  was  impossible  under  the 
scrutiny  of  this  wide-eyed  girl,  with  the  recollection  of 
events  gone  by. 

"  All  right,  Bess,"  he  admitted  at  last,  with 
an  effort,  "  we've  got  other  things  more  interest 
ing  than  myself  to  discuss  anyway."  He  looked  at 
her  openly,  significantly.  "  Your  own  self,  for  in 


stance." 


''Yes?" 

"  I'm  listening.     Tell  me  everything." 

"You  really  fancy  I  will  after — the  past?" 

"  Yes." 

"And  why,  please?" 

"  You've  already  told  me  why." 

"That's    right,"    meditatively.     "I'd    forgotten. 


The  Fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge    233 

We  were  going  to  be  ourselves,  our  natural  worst 
selves,  to-day." 

"  I'm  still  listening." 

"  You're  patient.  What  do  you  most  wish  to 
Jtnow?" 

"  Most?  The  thing  most  essential,  of  course.  Do 
you  love  your  husband?  You're  unhappy,  I  know. 
Is  that  the  reason?  " 

The  girl  looked  out,  out  over  the  prairies,  medi 
tatively,  impassively.  Far  in  the  distance,  in 
distinguishable  to  an  untrained  eye,  a  black  dot 
stood  out  above  the  horizon  line.  Her  eyes  paused 
upon  it. 

"  You'll  never  tell  anyone  if  I  answer?  "  she  asked 
suddenly. 

"  Never,  Bess." 

"You  swear  it?" 

"  I  swear." 

Just  perceptibly  the  girl's  lips  twitched. 

"  Thanks.  I  merely  wished  to  find  out  if  you 
would  still  perjure  yourself.  To  answer  your  ques 
tion,  I  really  don't  know." 

"  Bess !  "  The  man  was  upon  his  feet,  his  face 
twitching.  "  I'll  stand  a  lot  from  you,  but  there's  a 
limit » 

"  Sit  down,  please,"  evenly.  "  It's  wasted  ab 
solutely.  There's  not  a  soul  but  myself  to  see;  and 
I'm  not  looking.  Please  be  seated." 

From  his  height  the  man  looked  down  at  her;  at 
first  angrily,  resentfully — then  with  an  expression 


234  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

wherein  surprise  and  unbelief  were  mingled.  He  sat 
down. 

The  girl's  eyes  left  the  dot  on  the  horizon,  moved 
on  and  on. 

"  As  I  was  saying,"  she  continued,  u  I  don't  know. 
I'd  give  my  soul,  if  I  have  one,  to  know;  but  I  have 
no  one  with  whom  to  make  the  exchange,  no  one  who 
can  give  me  light.  Does  that  answer  your  ques 
tion?" 

Her  companion  stared  at  her,  and  forgot  himself. 

"  Yes,  it  answers  the  now.  But  why  did  you 
marry  him?  " 

"  You  really  wish  to  know  ?  "  Again  the  lips  were 
twitching. 

"  Yes." 

"  You're  very  hungry  for  compliments.  You 
yourself  are  why." 

No  answer,  only  silence. 

"  You've  seen  a  coursing,  haven't  you?  "  wandered 
on  the  girl.  "A  little  tired  rabbit  with  a  great 
mongrel  pack  in  pursuit?  You're  not  plural,  but 
nevertheless  you  personified  that  pack.  You  and  the 
unknown  things  you  represented  were  pressing  me 
close.  I  was  confused  and  afraid.  I  was  a  babe 
four  months  ago.  I  was  riot  afraid  of  How,  I  had 
loved  him — at  least  I  thought  I  had,  I'm  sure  of  noth 
ing  now — and,  as  I  say,  I  was  afraid  of  you — then." 

•"  And  now " 

Just  for  a  second  the  girl  glanced  at  the  questioner, 
then  she  looked  away. 


The  Fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge    235 

"  I'm  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  you  now — or  of 
anything." 

"  Not  even  of  your  husband?  " 

"  No,"  unemotionally.     "  I  leave  that  to  you." 

Again  the  man's  face  twitched,  but  he  was  silent. 

"  I  said  afraid  of  nothing,"  retracted  the  girl 
swiftly.  "  I  made  a  mistake."  Of  a  sudden  her 
face  grew  old  and  tense.  "  I  am  afraid  of  something; 
horribly  afraid.  I'm  as  afraid,  as  you  are  of  death, 
of  this  infinite  eventless  monotony."  She  bit  her  lip 
deep,  unconsciously.  "  I  sometimes  think  the  old 
fear  of  everything  were  preferable,  were  the  lesser  of 
the  two  evils." 

Just  perceptibly  the  figure  of  the  man  grew  alert* 
The  loose  skin  under  his  eyes  drew  tight  as  the  lids 
partially  closed. 

'  You've  been  a  bit  slow  about  it,  Bess,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  think  you've  gotten  down  to  realities  at  last." 
He  likewise  looked  away;  but  unseeingly.  The  mind 
of  Clayton  Craig  was  not  on  the  landscape  that  spring 
morning.  "  I  even  fancy  that  at  last  you  realise  what 
a  mess  you've  made  of  your  life." 

The  girl  showed  no  resentment,  no  surprise. 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  do,"  she  said. 

"  You  are  perhaps  even  prepared  to  admit  that  I/ 
wasn't  such  a  brute  after  all  in  attempting  to  prevent 
your  doing  as  you  did." 

"  No,"  monotonously.  "  You  could  have  pre 
vented  it  if  you  hadn't  been  a  brute." 

Again  the  man  looked  at  her,  unconscious  of  self, 


236  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

'  You  mean  that  you  did  really  and  truly  care  for 
me,  then,  Bess?  Cared  for  me  myself?  " 

'"  Yes." 

"  And  that  I  frightened  you  back  here?  " 

"Yes." 

Unconsciously  the  man  swallowed.  His  throat 
was  very  dry. 

"  And  now  that  you're  no  longer  afraid  of  me,  how 
ibout  it  now?  " 

The  girl  looked  away  in  silence. 

"  Tell  me,  Bess,"  pleaded  the  man,  "  tell  me!  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you.     I  don't  know." 

"Don't  know?" 

"  No.  I  don't  seem  to  be  sure  of  anything  now- 
a-days — anything  except  that  I'm  afraid." 

"Of  the  future?" 

"  Yes— and  of  myself." 

For  once  at  least  in  his  life  Clayton  Craig  was 
wise.  He  said  nothing.  A  long  silence  fell  between 
them.  It  was  the  girl  herself  who  broke  it. 

"  I  sometimes  think  a  part  of  me  is  dead,"  she  said 
slowly,  and  the  voice  was  very  weary.  "  I  think  it 
*vas  buried  in  Boston  with  Uncle  Landor." 

"  Was  I  to  blame,  Bess?" 

"  Yes.  You  were  the  grave  digger.  You  covered 
it  up." 

"  Then  I'm  the  one  to  bring  it  to  life  again." 

The  girl  said  nothing. 

"  You  admit,"  pressed  Craig,  "  that  I'm  the  only 


THe  Fruit  of  tHe  Tree  of  Knowledge    237 

person  who  can  restore  the  thing  you  have  lost,  the 
thing  whose  lack  is  making  you  unhappy?" 

"  Yes.     I  admit  it." 

The  man  took  a  deep  breath,  as  one  arousing  from 
/everie. 

"  Won't  you  let  me  give  it  you  again,  Bess?  "  he 
asked  low. 

"  You  won't  do  it,"  listlessly.  "  You  could,  but 
you  won't.  You're  too  selfish." 

"  Bess !  "     The  man's  hand  was  upon  her  arm. 

"  Don't  do  that,  please,"  said  the  girl  quietly. 

The  man's  face  twitched;  but  he  obeyed. 

**  You're  maddening,  Bess,"  he  flamed.  "  Posi 
tively  maddening!  " 

"  Perhaps,"  evenly.  "  I  warned  you  that  if  you 
stayed  we'd  be  ourselves  to-day.  I  merely  told  you 
things  as  they  are." 

Craig  opened  his  lips  to  speak;  but  closed  them 
again  in  silence.  One  of  his  hands,  long  fingered, 
white  as  a  woman's,  lay  in  his  lap.  Against  his  will 
now  and  then  a  muscle  contracted  nervously;  and  of  a 
sudden  he  thrust  the  telltale  member  deep  into  his 
trousers  pocket 

"  But  the  future,  Bess,"  he  challenged,  "  your 
future.  You  can't  go  on  this  way  indefinitely.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Haven't  you  ever  thought  of  it?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  I've  thought  of  nothing  else — » 
for  an  age." 


238  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

"  And  you Ve  decided  nothing  ?  " 

"  Absolutely  nothing." 

Again  the  man  drew  a  long  breath ;  but  even  there 
after  his  voice  trembled. 

"  Let  me  decide  for  you  then,  Bess,"  he  said. 

"  You?  "  The  girl  inspected  him  slowly  through' 
level  eyes.  "  By  what  right  should  you  be  permitted 
to  decide?" 

The  man  returned  her  look.  Of  a  sudden  he  had 
become  calm.  His  eyes  were  steady.  Deep  down  in 
his  consciousness  he  realised  that  he  would  win,  that 
the  moment  was  his  moment. 

"  The  right  is  mine  because  I  love  you,  Bess  Lan- 
dor,"  he  said  simply. 

"Love  me,  after  what  you  have  done?" 

"  Yes.  I  have  been  mad — and  done  mad  things. 
But  I've  discovered  my  fault.  That's  why  I've  come 
back;  to  tell  you  so — and  to  make  amends." 

Intensely,  desperately  intensely,  the  girl  continued 
her  look;  but  the  man  was  master  of  himself  now, 
sure  of  himself,  so  sure  that  he  voiced  a  challenge. 

"  And  you,  Bess  Landor,  love  me.  In  spite  of 
the  fact  that  you  ran  away,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
you  are  married,  you  love  me !  " 

Into  the  girl's  brown  face  there  crept  a  trace  of 
colour;  her  lips  parted,  but  she  said  no  word. 

"  You  can't  deny  it,"  exulted  the  man.  "  You 
can't — because  it  is  true." 

A  moment  longer  they  sat  so,  motionless ;  then  for 
a  second  time  that  day  Clayton  Craig  did  a  wise 


The  Fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge    239 

thing,  inspiration  wise.  While  yet  he  was  master  of 
the  situation,  while  yet  the  time  was  his,  he  arose. 

"  I'm  going  now,  Bess,"  he  said,  "  but  I'll  come 
again."  He  looked  at  her  deeply,  meaningly.  "  I've 
said  all  there  is  to  say,  for  I've  told  you  that  I  love 
you.  Good-bye  for  now,  and  remember  this :  If  I've 
stolen  your  happiness,  I'll  give  it  all  back.  As  God 
is  my  witness,  I'll  give  it  all  back  with  interest." 
Swiftly,  before  she  could  answer,  he  turned  away  and 
strode  toward  the  impatient  thoroughbred.  Equally 
swiftly  he  undid  the  tie  strap  and  mounted.  With 
out  another  word,  or  a  backward  glance,  he  rode 
away;  the  galloping  hoofs  of  his  mount  muffled  in 
the  damp  spring  earth. 

Equally  silent,  the  girl  sat  looking  after  him.  She 
did  not  move.  She  did  not  make  a  sound.  Not  un 
til  the  horse  turned  in  at  the  C-C  ranch  house,  until 
the  buildings  hid  the  owner  from  view,  did  her  eyes 
leave  him.  Then,  as  if  compelled  by  an  instinct,  she 
looked  away  over  the  prairie,  away  where  the  last 
time  she  had  glanced  a  tiny  black  dot  stood  out  against 
the  intense  blue  sky.  But  look  as  she  might  she  could 
not  find  it.  It  was  there  no  more.  It  had  been  for 
long;  but  now  was  not.  Clean  as  though  drawn  by 
a  crayon  on  a  freshly  washed  blackboard,  the  un 
broken  horizon  line  stretched  out  in  a  great  circle 
before  her  eyes.  With  no  watcher  save  the  grey 
wolf  staring  forth  from  the  stable  doorway,  she  was 
alone  with  her  thoughts. 


Chapter  XVI 

THE  RECKONING 

IT  was  later  than  usual  when  How  Landor  returned 
that  evening,  and  as  he  came  up  the  path  that  led  from 
the  stable,  he  shuffled  his  feet  as  one  unconsciously 
will  when  very  weary.  He  was  wearing  his  ready- 
made  clothes  and  starched  collar;  but  the  trousers 
were  deplorably  baggy  at  the  knees  from  much  rid 
ing,  and  his  linen  and  polished  shoes  were  soiled  with 
the  dust  of  the  prairie. 

Supper  was  waiting  for  him,  a  supper  hot  and 
carefully  prepared.  Serving  it  was  a  young  woman 
he  had  not  seen  for  long,  a  young  woman  minus  the 
slightest  trace  of  listlessness,  with  a  dash  of  red  rib 
bon  at  belt  and  throat,  and  a  reflection  of  the  same 
colour  burning  on  either  cheek.  A  young  woman, 
moreover,  who  anticipated  his  slightest  wish,  who 
took  his  hat  and  fetched  his  moccasins,  and  when 
the  meal  was  over  brought  the  buffalo  robes  and 
stretched  them  carefully  on  the  gently  sloping  terrace 
just  outside  the  ranch  house  door.  Meanwhile  she 
chatted  bubblingly,  continuously;  with  a  suggestion 
of  the  light-hearted  gaiety  of  a  year  before.  To  one 
less  intimately  acquainted  with  her  than  the  man,  her 
companion,  she  would  have  seemed  again  her  old 
girlish  self,  returned,  unchanged;  but  to  him  who 
knew  her  as  himself  there  was  now  and  then  a  note 

240 


The  Reckoning  241 

that  rang  false,  a  hint  of  suppressed  excitement  in  the 
unwonted  colour,  an  abnormal  energy  bordering  on 
the  feverish  in  her  every  motion.  Not  in  the  least 
deceived  was  this  impassive,  all-observing  human,  not 
in  the  least  in  doubt  as  to  the  cause  of  the  transforma 
tion  :  yet  through  it  all  he  gave  no  intimation  of  con 
sciousness  of  the  unusual,  through  it  all  he  smiled,  and 
smiled  and  smiled  again.  Never  was  there  a  more  ap 
preciative  diner  than  he,  never  a  more  attentive,  sym 
pathetic  listener.  He  said  but  little;  but  that  was  not 
remarkable.  He  had  never  done  so  except  when  she 
had  not.  When  he  looked  at  her  there  was  an  intensity 
that  was  almost  uncanny  in  his  gaze;  but  that  also  was 
not  unusual.  There  was  ever  a  mystery  in  the  depths 
of  his  steady  black  eyes.  Never  more  himself,  never 
outwardly  more  unsuspicious  was  the  man  than  on 
this  occasion ;  even  when,  the  meal  complete,  the  girl 
had  led  him  hand  in  hand  out  of  doors,  out  into  the 
soft  spring  night,  out  under  the  stars  where  she  had 
stretched  the  two  robes  intimately  close. 

Thus,  side  by  side,  but  not  touching,  they  lay  there, 
the  soft  south  breeze  fanning  their  faces,  whispering 
wordless  secrets  in  their  ears ;  about  them  the  friendly 
enveloping  darkness,  in  their  nostrils  the  subtle,  in 
describable  fragrance  of  awakening  earth  and  of 
growing  things.  But  not  even  then  could  the  girl  be 
still.  Far  too  full  of  this  day's  revelation  and  of  an 
ticipation  of  things  to  come  was  she  to  be  silent.  The 
mood  of  her  merely  changed.  The  chatter,  heretofore 
aimless,  ceased.  In  its  place  came  a  definite  intent, 


242  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

a  motive  that  prompted  a  definite  question.  She  was 
lying  stretched  out  like  a  child,  her  crossed  arms  pil 
lowing  her  head,  her  eyes  looking  up  into  the  great 
unknown,  when  she  gave  it  voice.  Even  when  she 
had  done  so,  she  did  not  alter  her  position. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  "  whether  if  one  has  made  a 
mistake,  it  were  better  to  go  on  without  acknowledg 
ing  it,  living  a  lie  and  dying  so,  or  to  admit  it  and 
make  another,  who  is  innocent,  instead  of  one's  self, 
pay  the  penalty?  "  She  paused  for  breath  after  the 
long  sentence.  "  What  do  you  think,  How?  " 

In  the  semi-darkness  the  man  looked  at  her. 
Against  the  lighter  sky  her  face  stood  out  distinct, 
clear-cut  as  a  silhouette. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  ever  right  to  live  a  lie,  Bess," 
he  answered. 

"  Not  even  to  keep  another,  who  is  innocent,  from 
suffering?  " 

"  No,"  quickly,  "  not  even  to  keep  another  from 
suffering." 

The  girl  shifted  restlessly,  repressedly. 

"  But  supposing  one's  acknowledging  the  lie  and 
living  the  truth  makes  one,  according  to  the  world, 
bad.  Would  that  make  any  difference,  How?" 

The  Indian  did  not  stir,  merely  lay  there  looking 
at  her  with  his  steady  eyes. 

"  There  are  some  things  one  has  to  decide  for  one's 
self,"  he  said.  "  I  think  this  is  one  of  them." 

Again  the  arms  beneath  the  girl's  head  shifted  un 
consciously. 


The  Reckoning  243 

"  Others  judge  us  after  we  do  decide,  though," 
she  objected. 

"  What  they  think  doesn't  count.  We're  good  or 
bad,  as  we're  honest  with  ourselves  or  not." 

"You  think  that,  really?" 

"  I  know  it,  Bess.     There's  no  room  for  doubt." 

Silence  fell,  and  in  it  the  girl's  mind  wandered  on 
and  on.  At  last,  abrupt  as  before,  abstractedly  as 
before,  came  a  new  thought,  a  new  query. 

"  Is  happiness,  after  all,  the  chief  end  of  life, 
How?  "  she  questioned. 

"Happiness,  Bess?"  He  halted.  '"Happi 
ness?  "  repeated;  but  there  was  no  irony  in  the  voice, 
only,  had  the  girl  noticed,  a  terrible  mute  pain. 
"  How  should  I  know  what  is  best  in  life,  I,  who  have 
never  known  life  at  all?  " 

Blind  in  her  own  abstraction,  the  girl  had  not  read 
beneath  the  words  themselves,  did  not  notice  the 
thinly  veiled  inference. 

"  But  you  must  have  an  idea,"  she  pressed.     "  Tell 


me." 


This  time  the  answer  was  not  concealed.  It  stood 
forth  glaring,  where  the  running  might  read. 

"  Yes,  I  have  an  idea — and  more,"  he  said. 
"  Happiness,  your  happiness,  has  always  been  the 
first  thing  in  my  life." 

Again  silence  walled  them  in,  a  longer  silence  than 
before.  Step  by  step,  gropingly,  the  girl  was  advanc 
ing  on  her  journey.  Step  by  step  she  was  drawing 
away  from  her  companion;  yet  though,  wide-eyed,  he 


244  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

watched  her  every  motion,  felt  the  distance  separating 
grow  wider  and  wider,  he  made  no  move  to  prevent, 
threw  no  obstacle  in  her  path.  Deliberately  from  his 
grip,  from  beneath  his  very  eyes,  fate,  the  relentless, 
was  filching  his  one  ewe  lamb;  yet  he  gave  no  sign  of 
the  knowledge,  spoke  no  word  of  unkindness  or  of 
hate.  Nature,  the  all-observing,  could  not  but  have 
admired  her  child  that  night. 

One  more  advance  the  girl  made;  and  that  was 
the  last.  Before  she  had  walked  gropingly,  as 
though  uncertain  of  her  pathway.  Now  there  was 
no  hesitation.  The  move  was  deliberate;  even 
certain. 

"  I  know  you'll  think  I'm  foolish,  How,"  she  began 
swiftly,  "  but  I  haven't  much  to  think  about,  and  so 
little  things  appeal  to  me."  She  paused  and  again 
her  folded  arms  reversed  beneath  her  head.  "  I've 
been  watching  '  Shaggy,'  the  wolf  here,  since  he  grew 
up;  watched  him  become  restless  week  by  week. 
Last  night, — you  didn't  notice,  but  I  did, — I  heard 
another  wolf  call  away  out  on  the  prairie,  and  I  got 
up  to  see  what  Shaggy  would  do.  Somehow  I  seemed 
to  understand  how  he'd  feel,  and  I  came  out  here,  out 
where  we  are  now,  and  looked  down  toward  the  barn. 
It  was  moonlight  last  night,  and  I  could  see  every 
thing  clearly,  almost  as  clearly  as  day.  There  hadn't 
been  a  sound  while  I  was  getting  up;  but  all  at  once 
as  I  stood  watching  the  call  was  repeated  from  some 
where  away  off  in  the  distance.  Before,  Shaggy 
hadn't  stirred.  He  was  standing  there,  where  you 


The  Reckoning  245 

had  chained  him,  just  outside  the  door;  but  when  that 
second  call  came,  it  was  too  much.  He  started  to  go, 
did  go  as  far  as  he  could;  then  the  collar  choked  him 
and  he  realised  where  he  was.  He  didn't  make  a 
sound,  he  didn't  fight  or  rebel  against  something  he 
couldn't  help;  but  the  way  he  looked,  there  in  the 
moonlight,  with  the  chain  stretched  across  his 

back "     She  halted  abruptly,  of  a  sudden  sat  up. 

"  I  know  it's  childish,  but  promise  me,  How,  you'll 
let  him  go,"  she  pleaded.  "  He's  wild,  and  the  wild 
was  calling  to  him.  Please  promise  me  you'll  let 
him  go!  " 

Not  even  then  did  the  man  stir  or  his  eyes  leave 
her  face. 

"  Did  I  ever  tell  you,  Bess,"  he  asked,  "  that  it  was 
to  save  Shaggy's  life  I  brought  him  here?  Sam 
Howard  dug  his  mother  out  of  her  den  and  shot  her, 
and  was  going  to  kill  the  cub,  too,  when  I  found 
him." 

"  No."  A  hesitating  pause.  "  But  anyway," 
swiftly,  "  that  doesn't  make  any  difference.  He's 
wild,  and  it's  a  prison  to  him  here." 

Deliberately,  ignoring  the  refutation,  the  man  went 
on  with  the  argument. 

"  Again,  if  Shaggy  returns,"  he  said,  "  the  chances 
are  he  won't  live  through  a  year.  The  first  cowboy 
who  gets  near  enough  will  shoot  him  on  sight." 

"  He'll  have  to  take  his  chance  of  that,  How," 
countered  the  girl.  "  We  all  have  to  take  our 
chances  in  this  life." 


246  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

For  the  second  time  the  Indian  ignored  the  inter 
ruption. 

"  Last  of  all,  he's  a  murderer,  Bess.  If  he  were 
free  he'd  kill  the  first  animal  weaker  than  himself 
he  met.  Have  you  thought  of  that?  " 

The  girl  looked  away  into  the  infinite  abstractedly. 

4  Yes.  But  again  that  makes  no  difference. 
Neither  you  nor  I  made  him  as  he  is,  nor  Shaggy  him 
self.  He's  as  God  meant  him  to  be;  and  if  he's  bad, 
God  alone  is  to  blame."  Her  glance  returned,  met 
the  other  fair.  "  I  wish  you'd  let  him  go,  How." 

The  man  made  no  answer. 

"'  Won't  you  promise  me  you'll  let  him  go?  " 

"  You  really  wish  it,  Bess?  " 

"  Yes,  very  much." 

Still  for  another  moment  the  man  made  no  move; 
then  of  a  sudden  he  arose. 

"  Come,  Bess,"  he  said. 

Wondering,  the  girl  got  to  her  feet;  wondering 
still  more,  followed  his  lead  down  the  path  to  the 
stable.  At  the  door  the  Indian  whistled.  But  there 
was  no  response,  no  shaggy  grey  answering  shadow. 
A  lantern  hung  from  a  nail  near  at  hand.  In  silence 
the  man  lit  it  and  again  led  the  way  within.  The 
mouse-coloured  broncho  and  its  darker  mate  were 
asleep,  but  at  the  interruption  they  awoke  and  looked 
about  curiously.  Otherwise  there  was  no  move. 
Look  where  one  would  within  the  building,  there  was 
no  sign  of  another  live  thing.  Still  in  silence  the  In 
dian  led  the  way  outside,  made  the  circuit  of  the 


The  Reckoning  247 

stable,  paused  at  the  south  end  where  a  chain  hung 
loose  from  a  peg  driven  into  the  wall.  A  moment 
he  stood  there,  holding  the  light  so  the  girl  could  see ; 
then,  impassive  as  before,  he  extinguished  the  blaze 
and  returned  the  lantern  to  its  place. 

They  were  half  way  back  to  the  house  before  the 
girl  spoke;  then,  detainingly,  she  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  arm. 

"  You  mean  you've  let  him  go  already,  How?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Yes.     I  didn't  fasten  him  this  evening." 

They  walked  on  so. 

"  You  wanted  him  to  go?  " 

No  answer. 

"  Tell  me,  How,  did  you  want  him  to  leave?  " 

"  No,  Bess." 

Again  they  advanced,  until  they  reached  the  house 
door. 

;'  Why  did  you  let  him  go,  then?  "  asked  the  girl 
tensely. 

For  the  second  time  there  was  no  answer. 

"  Tell  me,  How,"  she  repeated  insistently. 

"  I  heard  you  get  up  last  night,  Bess,"  said  a  voice. 
"  I  thought  I — understood." 

For  long  they  stood  there,  the  girl's  hand  on  the 
man's  arm,  but  neither  stirring;  then  with  a  sound 
perilously  near  a  sob,  the  hand  dropped. 

"  I  think  I'll  go  to  bed  now,  How,"  she  said. 

Deliberately,  instinctively,  the  man's  arms  folded 
across  his  chest.  That  was  all. 


248  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

The  girl  mounted  the  single  step,  paused  in  the 
doorway. 

"  Aren't  you  coming,  too,  How?  "  she  queried. 

"  No,  Bess." 

A  sudden  suspicion  came  to  the  girl,  a  sudden 
terror. 

"  You  aren't  angry  with  me,  are  you?"  she 
trembled. 

"  No,  Bess,"  repeated. 

"  But  still  you're  not  coming?  " 

"  No." 

Swift  as  a  lightning  flash  suspicion  became  cer 
tainty. 

"  You  mean  you're  not  going  to  come  with  me  to 
night?"  She  scarcely  recognised  her  own  voice. 
"  You're  never  going  to  be  with  me  again?  " 

"Never?"  A  long,  long  pause.  "God  alone 
knows  about  that,  Bess."  A  second  halt.  "  Not 
until  things  between  us  are  different,  at  least." 

"  How !  "  Blindly,  weakly,  the  girl  threw  out  her 
hand,  grasped  the  casing  of  the  door.  "  Oh,  How ! 
How !  " 

No  answer,  not  the  twitching  of  a  muscle,  nor  the 
whisper   of   a  breath;   just   that   dread,    motionless; 
silence.     A  moment  the  girl  stood  it,  hoping  against 
hope,  praying  for  a  miracle;  then  she  could  stand  it 
no    longer.     Gropingly    clutching    at    every    object' 
within  reach,  she  made  her  way  into  the  dark  interior; 
flung  herself  full  dressed  onto  the  bed,  her  face  buried 
desperately  among  the  covers. 

All  the  night  which  followed    a  sentinel  paces? 


The  Reckoning  249 

back  and  forth  in  front  of  the  ranch  house  door;  back 
and  forth  like  an  automaton,  back  and  forth  in  a 
motion  that  seemed  perpetual.  Within  the  tiny  low- 
ceiled  room,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  the  girl  sobbed 
herself  into  a  fitful  sleep ;  but  not  once  did  the  sentinel 
pause  to  rest,  not  once  in  those  dragging  hours  before 
day  did  he  relax.  With  the  coming  of  the  first  trace 
of  light  he  halted,  and  on  silent  moccasined  feet 
stole  within.  But  again  he  only  remained  for  mo 
ments,  and  when  he  returned  it  was  merely  to  stride 
away  to  the  stable.  Within  the  space  of  minutes,  be 
fore  the  east  had  fairly  begun  to  grow  red,  silently  as 
he  did  everything,  he  rode  away  astride  the  mouse- 
coloured  cayuse  into  the  darkness  to  the  west. 

It  was  broad  day  when  the  girl  awoke,  and  then 
with  a  vague  sense  of  depression  and  of  impending 
evil.  The  door  was  open  and  the  bright  morning 
light  flooded  the  room.  Beyond  the  entrance 
stretched  the  open  prairie:  an  endless  sea  of  green 
with  a  tiny  brown  island,  her  own  dooryard,  in  the 
foreground.  With  dull  listlessness,  the  girl  propped 
herself  up  in  bed  and  sat  looking  about  her.  Ab 
sently,  aimlessly,  her  eyes  passed  from  one  familiar 
object  to  another.  Without  any  definite  conception 
of  why  or  of  where,  she  was  conscious  of  an  impres 
sion  of  change  in  the  material  world  about  her,  a 
change  that  corresponded  to  the  mental  crisis  that  had 
so  recently  taken  place.  Glad  as  was  the  sunshine 
without  this  morning,  in  her  it  aroused  no  answering 
joy.  Ubiquitous  as  was  the  vivid  surrounding  life, 


250  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

its  message  passed  her  by.  Like  a  haze  enveloping, 
dulling  all  things,  was  a  haunting  memory  of  the  past 
night  and  of  what  it  had  meant.  As  a  traveller  lost 
in  this  fog,  she  lay  staring  about,  indecisive  which  way 
to  move,  idly  waiting  for  light.  Ordinarily  action  it 
self  would  have  offered  a  solution  of  the  problem, 
would  have  served  at  least  as  a  diversion;  but  this 
morning  she  was  strangely  listless,  strangely  indiffer 
ent.  There  seemed  to  her  no  adequate  reason  for 
rising,  no  definite  object  in  doing  anything  more  than 
she  was  doing.  In  conformity  she  pulled  the  pillow 
higher  and,  lifting  herself  wearily,  dropped  her  chin 
into  her  palm  and  lay  with  wide-open  eyes  staring 
aimlessly  away. 

Just  how  long  she  remained  there  so,  she  did  not 
know.  The  doorway  faced  south,  and  bit  by  bit  the 
bar  of  sunlight  that  had  entered  therein  began  mov 
ing  to  the  left  across  the  floor.  Unconsciously,  for 
the  lack  of  anything  better  to  do,  she  watched  its  ad 
vance.  It  fell  upon  a  tiny  shelf  against  the  wall,  lit 
tered  with  a  collection  of  papers  and  magazines;  and 
the  reflected  light  from  the  white  sheets  glared  in  her 
eyes.  It  came  to  the  supper  table  of  the  night  before, 
the  table  she  had  not  cleared,  and  like  an  accusing 
hand,  lay  directed  at  the  evidence  of  her  own  sloth- 
fulness.  On  it  went  with  the  passing  time,  on  and  on ; 
crossed  a  bare  spot  on  the  uncarpeted  floor,  and  like  a 
live  thing,  began  climbing  the  wall  beyond. 

Deliberately,  with  a  sort  of  fascination  now,  the 
girl  watched  its  advance.  Her  nerves  were  on  edge 


The  Reckoning 

this  morning,  and  in  its  relentless  stealth  it  began  to 
assume  an  element  of  the  uncanny.  Like  a  hostile 
alien  thing,  it  seemed  searching  here  and  there  in  the 
tiny  room  for  something  definite,  something  it  did  not 
find.  Fatuous  as  it  may  seem,  the  impression  grew 
upon  her,  augmented  until  in  its  own  turn  it  became  a 
dominant  influence.  Her  glance,  heretofore  absent, 
perfunctory,  became  intense.  The  glare  was  well 
above  the  floor  by  this  time  and  climbing  higher  and 
higher.  Answering  the  mythical  challenge,  of  a  sud 
den  she  sat  up  free  in  bed  and,  as  though  at  a  spoken 
injunction,  looked  about  her  fairly. 

The  place  where  she  glanced,  the  point  toward 
which  the  light  was  mounting,  was  beside  her  own 
bed  and  where,  from  rough-fashioned  wooden  pegs, 
hung  the  Indian's  pathetically  scant  wardrobe.  At 
first  glance  there  seemed  to  the  girl  nothing  unusual 
revealed  thereon,  nothing  significant;  and,  restlessly 
observant,  the  inspection  advanced.  Then,  ere  the 
mental  picture  could  vanish,  ere  a  new  impression 
could  take  its  place,  in  a  flash  of  tardy  recollection  and 
of  understanding  came  realisation  complete,  and  her 
eyes  returned.  For  perhaps  a  minute  thereafter  she 
sat  so,  her  great  eyes  unconsciously  opening  wider  and 
wider,  her  brown  skin  shading  paler  second  by  second. 
A  minute  so,  a  minute  of  nerve-tense  inaction;  then 
with  a  little  gesture  of  weariness  and  of  abandon  ab* 
solute,  she  dropped  back  in  her  place,  and  covered  her 
face  from  sight. 


Chapter  XVII 

SACRIFICE 

A  WEEK  had  gone  by.  Each  day  of  the  seven  the 
thoroughbred  with  the  slender  legs  and  the  tiny  sensi 
tive  ears  had  stood  in  the  barren  dooryard  before 
Elizabeth  Lander's  home.  Moreover,  with  each  rep 
etition  the  arrival  had  been  earlier,  the  halt  longer. 
Though  the  weather  was  perfect,  nevertheless  the 
beast  had  grown  impatient  under  the  long  waits,  and 
telltale,  a  glaring  black  mound  had  come  into  being 
where  he  had  pawed  his  displeasure.  At  first  Craig 
on  departing  had  carefully  concealed  the  testimony 
jf  his  presence  beneath  a  sprinkling  of  dooryard  lit 
ter;  but  at  last  he  had  ceased  to  do  so,  and  bit  by  bit 
the  mound  had  grown.  Day  had  succeeded  day,  and 
no  one  had  appeared  to  question  the  visitor's  right  of 
coming  or  of  going.  Even  the  wolf  was  no  longer 
present  to  stare  his  disapproval.  Verily,  unchallenged, 
the  king  had  come  into  his  own  in  this  realm  of  one; 
and  as  a  monarch  absolute  ever  rules,  Clayton  Craig 
had  reigned,  was  reigning  now. 

For  he  no  longer  halted  perforce  at  t&e  doorstep. 
He  had  never  been  invited  to  enter,  yet  he  had  en 
tered — and  the  girl  had  spoken  no  word  to  prevent. 
Not  by  request  were  his  cap  and  riding  stick  banging 

252 


Sacrifice  253 

from  a  peg  beside  the  few  belongings  of  How  Lan- 
dor;  yet,  likewise  unchallenged,  they  were  there.  Not 
by  the  girl's  solicitation  was  he  lounging  intimately 
in  the  single  rocker  the  room  boasted;  yet  once  again 
the  bald  fact  remained  that  though  it  was  not  yet  nine 
by  the  clock,  he  was  present,  his  legs  comfortably 
crossed,  his  eyes,  beneath  drooping  lids,  whimsically 
observing  the  girl  as  she  went  about  the  perfunctory 
labour  of  putting  the  place  to  rights. 

"  I  say,  Bess,"  he  remarked  casually  at  length, 
"  youVe  dusted  that  unoffending  table  three  times  by 
actual  count  since  I've  been  watching.  Wouldn't  it 
be  proper  to  rest  a  bit  now  and  entertain  your  com 
pany?" 

The  girl  did  not  smile. 

"  Perhaps."  She  put  away  the  cloth  judicially. 
"  I  fancied  you  were  tolerably  amused  as  it  was. 

However,  if  you  prefer "  She  drew  another 

chair  opposite,  and,  sitting  down,  folded  her  hands  in 
her  lap. 

A  moment  longer  the  man  sat  smiling  at  her;  then 
shade  by  shade  the  whimsical  expression  vanished,  and 
the  normal  proprietary  look  he  had  grown  to  assume 
in  her  presence  took  its  place. 

"  By  the  way,  Bess,"  he  commented,  "  isn't  it  about 
time  to  drop  sarcasm  when  you  and  I  are  together? 
I  know  I've  been  a  most  reprehensible  offender,  but 
haven't  I  been  punished  enough?  " 

"Punished?"  There  was  just  the  ghost  of  a 
smile.  "  Is  this  your  idea  of  punishment?  " 


254  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

The  man  flushed  involuntarily.  His  face  had 
cleared  remarkably  in  the  past  week  of  abstinence,  and 
through  the  fair  skin  the  colour  showed  plain. 

"  Well,  perhaps  punishment  is  a  little  too  severe. 
Leastways  you've  held  me  at  arm's  length  until  I'm 
beginning  to  despair." 

"Despair?"  Again  the  ghost  smiled  forth. 
"  Do  you  fancy  I'm  so  dull  that  I  don't  realise  what 
I'm  doing,  what  you've  done?  " 

For  the  second  time  the  involuntary  colour  ap 
peared;  but  the  role  that  the  man  was  playing,  the 
role  of  the  injured,  was  too  effective  to  abandon  at 
once. 

"  You  can't  deny  that  you've  held  me  away  all  this 
last  week,  Bess,"  he  objected.  "  You've  permitted 
me  to  call  and  call  again ;  but  that  is  all.  Otherwise 
we're  not  a  bit  nearer  than  we  were  when  I  first 
returned." 

"Nearer?"  This  time  the  smile  did  not  come. 
Even  the  ghost  refused  to  appear.  "  I  wonder  if 
that's  true."  A  pause.  "  At  least  I've  gotten  im 
measurably  farther  away  from  another." 

u  Your  husband  you  mean?  " 

"  I  mean  How.  There  are  but  you  and  he  in  my 
life." 

The  pose  was  abandoned.     It  was  useless  now. 

"  Tell  me,  Bess,"  said  the  man  intimately.  "  You 
and  I  mean  too  much  to  each  other  not  to  know 
everything  there  is  to  know." 

"  There's  nothing  to  tell."    The  girl  did  not  dis- 


Sacrifice  255 

simulate  now.  The  inevitable  was  in  sight,  approach 
ing  swiftly — and  she  herself  had  chosen.  "  He's 
merely  given  me  up." 

"He  knows,  Bess?"  Blank  unbelief  was  on  the 
questioner's  face,  something  else  as  well,  something 
akin  to  exultation. 

"  Yes,"  repressedly.  "  He's  known  since  that  first 
night." 

"  And  he  hasn't  objected,  hasn't  done  anything  at 
all?" 

Just  for  an  instant,  ere  came  second  thought,  the 
old  defiance,  the  old  pride,  broke  forth. 

"  Do  you  fancy  you  would  be  here  now,  that  you 
wouldn't  have  known  before  this  if  he  objected?" 
she  flamed. 

"Bess!" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  shouldn't  have  said  that." 
Already  the  blaze  had  died,  never  to  be  rekindled. 
"  Forget  that  I  said  that.  I  didn't  mean  to." 

The  man  did  not  answer,  he  scarcely  heard.  Al 
most  as  by  a  miracle,  the  last  obstacle  had  been  re 
moved  from  his  way.  He  had  counted  upon 
blindness,  the  unsuspicion  of  perfect  confidence;  but  a 

passive,  conscious  conformity  such  as  this The 

thing  was  unbelievable,  providential,  too  unnaturally 
good  to  last.  The  present  was  a  strategic  moment, 
the  time  for  immediate,  irrevocable  action,  ere  there 
came  a  change  of  heart.  It  had  not  been  a  part  of 
Clayton  Craig's  plans  to  permit  a  meeting  between 
himself  and  the  Indian.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  had 


256  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

taken  elaborate,  and,  as  it  proved,  unnecessary,  pre 
cautions  to  avoid  such  a  consummation.  Even  now, 
the  necessity  passed,  he  did  not  alter  his  plans.  Not 
that  he  was  afraid  of  the  red  man.  He  had  proven 
to  himself  by  an  incontrovertible  process  of  reasoning 
that  such  was  not  the  case.  It  was  merely  to  avoid 
unpleasantness  for  himself  and  for  the  girl — partic 
ularly  for  the  latter.  Moreover,  no  possible  object 
could  be  gained  by  such  a  meeting.  Things  were  as 
they  were  and  inevitable.  He  merely  decided  to 
hasten  the  move.  It  was  the  forming  of  this  decision 
that  had  held  him  silent.  It  was  under  its  influence 
that  he  spoke. 

"  When  is  it  to  be,  Bess,"  he  asked  abruptly,  "  the 
final  break,  I  mean?  " 

"  It  has  already  been,  I  tell  you.     It's  all  over." 
"  The  new  life,  then,"  guided  the  man.       "  You 
can't  go  on  this  way  any  longer.     It's  intolerable  for 
both  of  us." 

"  Yes,"  dully,  "  it's  intolerable  for  all  of  us." 
Craig  arose  and,  walking  to  the  door,  looked  out. 
In  advance  he  had  imagined  that  the  actual  move, 
when  all  was  ready,  would  be  easy.  Now  that  the 
time  had  really  arrived,  he  found  it  strangely  difficult. 
He  hardly  knew  how  to  begin. 

"  Bess."  Of  a  sudden  he  had  returned  swiftly  and, 
very  erect,  very  dominant,  stood  looking  down  at  her. 
"  Bess,"  repeated,  "  we've  avoided  the  obvious  long 
enough,  too  long.  As  I  said,  you've  succeeded  in 
keeping  me  at  arm's  length  all  the  last  week;  but  I 


Sacrifice  257' 

won't  be  denied  any  longer.  I'm  willing  to  take  all 
the  blame  of  the  past,  and  all  the  responsibility  of  the 
future.  I  love  you,  Bess.  I've  told  you  that  before, 
but  I  repeat  it  now.  I  want  you  to  go  away  with  me, 
away  from  this  God-cursed  land  that's  driving  us  both 
mad — at  least  leave  for  a  time.  After  a  while,  when 
we  both  feel  different,  we  can  come  back  if  we  wish; 
but  for  the  present — I  can't  stand  this  uncertainty 
another  week,  another  day."  He  paused  for  breath, 
came  a  step  nearer. 

"  Your  marrying  this  Indian  was  a  hideous  mis 
take,"  he  rushed  on;  "  but  we  can't  help  that  now. 
All  we  can  do  is  to  get  away  and  forget  it."  He 
cleared  his  throat  needlessly.  "  It's  this  getting  away 
that  I've  arranged  for  since  I've  been  here.  I've  not 
been  entirely  idle  the  last  week,  and  every  detail  is 
.complete.  There  are  three  relays  of  horses  waiting 
between  here  and  the  railroad.  One  team  is  all  ready 
at  the  ranch  house  the  minute  I  give  the  signal. 
They'll  get  us  to  town  before  morning.  You've  only 
to  say  the  word,  and  I'll  give  the  sign."  Again,  ner 
vously,  shortly,  he  repeated  the  needless  rasp, 
"  How  may,  as  you  say,  not  interfere;  but  it's  useless 
to  take  any  chances.  There's  been  enough  tragedy 
already  between  you  two,  without  courting  more. 
Besides,  the  past  is  dead;  dead  as  though  it  had  never 
been.  My  lawyer  is  over  at  the  ranch  house  now. 
He'll  straighten  out  everything  after  we're  gone. 
Things  here  are  all  in  your  name ;  you  can  do  as  you 
please  with  them.  There's  no  possible  excuse  for 


258  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

delay."  He  bent  over  her,  his  hands  on  her 
shoulders,  his  eyes  looking  into  hers  compellingly. 
"  God  knows  you've  been  buried  here  long  enough, 
girl.  I'll  teach  you  to  live;  to  live,  do  you  hear? 
We'll  be  very  happy  together,  you  and  I,  Bess;  hap 
pier  than  you  ever  dreamed  of  being.  Will  you 
come?" 

He  was  silent,  and  of  a  sudden  the  place  became 
very  still ;  still  as  the  dead  past  the  man  had9  suggested. 
Wide-eyed,  motionless,  the  girl  sat  looking  up  at  him. 
She  did  not  speak;  she  scarcely  seemed  to  breathe.  As 
she  had  chosen,  so  had  it  come  to  pass;  yet  involun 
tarily  she  delayed.  Deliverance  from  the  haunting 
solitude  that  had  oppressed  her  like  an  evil  dream 
was  beckoning;  yet  impotent,  she  held  back.  Of  a 
sudden,  within  her  being,  something  she  had  fancied 
dormant  had  awakened.  The  instinct  of  convention, 
fundamental,  inbred,  more  vital  to  a  woman  than  life 
itself,  intruded  preventingly,  fair  in  her  path. 
Warning,  pleading,  distinct  as  a  spoken  admonition, 
its  voice  sounded  a  negative  in  her  ears.  She  tried 
to  silence  it,  tried  to  overwhelm  it  with  her  newborn 
philosophy;  but  it  was  useless.  Fear  of  the  future, 
as  she  had  said,  she  had  none.  Good  or  bad  as  the 
man  might  be,  she  had  chosen.  With  full  knowledge 
of  his  deficiencies  she  had  chosen.  But  to  go  away 
with  him  so,  without  sanction  of  law  or  of  clergy; 
she,  Bess  Landor,  who  was  a  wife 

The  hands  on  her  shoulders  tightened  insistently, 
the  compelling  face  drew  nearer. 


Sacrifice  259 

"Answer  me,  Bess,"  demanded  a  tense  voice; 
"  don't  keep  me  in  suspense.  Will  you  go?  " 

With  the  motion  of  a  captured  wild  thing,  the  girl 
arose,  drew  back  until  she  was  free. 

"  Don't,"  she  pleaded.  "  Don't  hurry  me  so.  Give 
me  a  little  time  to  think."  She  caught  her  breath 
from  the  effort.  "  I'll  go  with  you,  yes;  but  to-day, 
now — I  can't.  We  must  see  How  first.  He  must 
know,  must  consent " 

"  See  How !  "  The  man  checked  himself.  "  You 
must  be  mad,"  he  digressed.  "  I  can't  see  How,  nor 
won't.  I  tell  you  it's  between  How  and  myself  you 
must  choose.  I  love  you,  Bess.  I'm  proving  I  love 
you ;  but  I'm  not  insane  absolutely.  I  ask  you  again : 
will  you  come?  " 

The  girl  shook  her  head,  nervously,  jerkily. 

"  I  can't  now,  as  things  are." 

"And  why  not?"  passionately.  "Haven't  you 
said  you  care  for  me  ?  " 

For  answer  the  red  lower  lip  trembled.  That  was 
all. 

The  man  came  a  step  forward,  and  another. 

"  Tell  me,  Bess,"  he  demanded.  "  Don't  you  love 
me?" 

"  I  have  told  you,"  said  a  low  voice. 

Answering,  coercing,  swift  as  the  swoop  of  a 
prairie  hawk,  as  a  human  being  in  abandon,  the  man's 
arms  were  about  her.  Ere  the  girl  could  move  or 
resist,  his  lips  were  upon  her  lips.  "  You  must  go 
then,"  he  commanded.  "  I'll  compel  you  to  go." 


260  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

He  kissed  her  again,  hungrily,  irresistibly.  "  I  won't 
take  no  for  an  answer.  You  will  go." 

"  Don't,  please,"  pleaded  a  voice,  breathless  from 
its  owner's  impotent  effort  to  be  free.  "  You  must 
not,  we  must  not — yet.  I'm  bad,  I  know,  but  not 
wholly.  Please  let  me  go." 

Unconscious  of  time,  unconscious  of  place,  obliv 
ious  to  aught  save  the  moment,  the  man  held  his 
ground,  joying  in  his  victory,  in  her  effort  to  escape. 
Save  that  one  casual  glance  long  before,  he  had  not 
looked  out  of  doors.  Had  he  done  so,  had  he 
seen 

But  he  had  forgotten  that  a  world  existed  with 
out  those  four  walls.  His  back  was  toward  the 
door.  His  own  great  shoulders  walled  the  girl  in. 
Neither  he  nor  she  dreamed  of  a  dark  figure  that  had 
drifted  from  out  the  prairie  swiftly  into  the  door- 
yard,  dreamed  that  that  same  all-knowing  shadow,  on 
soundless  mocca<sined  feet,  had  advanced  to  the  door 
way,  stood  silent,  watching  therein.  As  the  first  man 
and  the  first  woman  were  alone,  they  fancied  them 
selves  alone.  As  the  first  man  might  have  exulted 
over  his  mate,  Clayton  Craig  exulted  now. 

"  Let  you  go,  Bess,"  he  baited,  "  let  you  go  now 
that  IVe  just  gotten  you?"  He  laughed  passion 
ately.  "  You  must  think  that  I'm  made  of  clay  and 
not  of  flesh  and  blood."  He  drew  her  closer  and 
closer,  until  she  could  no  longer  struggle,  until  she  lay 
still  in  his  arms.  "  I'll  never  let  you  go  again,  girl, 
not  if  God  himself  were  to  demand  your  release. 


Sacrifice  261 

You're    mine,    Bess,    mine    by    right    of    capture, 

mine " 

The  sentence  halted  midway;  halted  in  a  gasp  and 
an  unintelligible  muttering  in  the  throat.  Of  a  sudden, 
darkening,  ominous,  fateful,  the  shadow  within  the 
entrance  had  silently  advanced  until  it  stood  beside 
them,  paused  so  with  folded  arms.  Simultaneously 
the  wife  and  the  invader  saw,  realised.  Instantly,  in 
stinctively,  like  similar  repellent  poles,  they  sprang 
apart.  Enveloped  in  a  maze  of  surging  divergent 
passions,  the  two  guilty  humans  stood  silent  so,  star 
ing  at  the  intruder  in  breathless  expectation,  breath 
less  fascination. 

•  !•!  (•!  f»l  [•! 

While  an  observer  could  have  counted  ten  slowly, 
and  repeated  the  count,  the  three  remained  precisely 
as  they  were.  While  the  same  mythical  spectator 
could  have  counted  ten  more,  the  silence  held;  but 
inaction  had  ceased.  While  time,  the  relentless, 
checked  off  another  measure,  there  was  still  no  in 
terruption;  then  of  a  sudden,  desperately  tense, 
desperately  challenging,  a  voice  sounded :  the  voice  of 
Clayton  Craig. 

"  Well,"  he  queried,  "  why  don't  you  do  some 
thing?  "  He  moistened  his  lips  and  shuffled  his  feet 
restlessly.  "  You've  seen  enough  to  understand,  I 
guess.  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?  " 

The  Indian  had  not  been  looking  at  him.  Since 
that  first  moment  when  the  two  had  sprang  separate 
he  had  not  even  appeared  conscious  of  his  presence. 


262  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

Nor  did  he  alter  now.  Erect  as  a  maize  plant, 
dressed  once  more  in  the  flannels  and  corduroys  of 
his  station,  as  tall  and  graceful,  he  merely  stood  there 
with  folded  arms,  looking  down  on  the  girl.  More 
maddening  than  an  execration,  than  physical  menace 
itself,  was  that  passionless,  ignoring  isolation  to  the 
other  man.  Answering,  the  hot  blood  flooded  his 
blonde  face,  swelled  the  arteries  of  his  throat  until 
his  collar  choked  him.  Involuntarily  his  hand  went 
to  his  neckband,  tugged  until  it  was  free.  Equally 
involuntarily  he  took  a  step  forward  menacingly. 

"  Curse  you,  How  Landor,"  he  blazed,  "  youVe 
learned  at  last,  perhaps,  not  to  dare  me  to  take  some 
thing  of  yours  away  from  you."  Word  by  word  his 
voice  had  risen  until  he  fairly  shouted.  "  You've  lost, 
fool;  lost,  lost!  Are  you  blind  that  you  can't  see? 
You've  lost,  I  say !  " 

From  pure  inability  to  articulate  more,  the  white 
man  halted ;  and  that  instant  the  room  became  deathly 
still. 

A  second,  or  the  fraction  of  a  second  thereof, 
it  remained  so;  theji,  white-faced,  apprehensive,  the 
girl  sprang  between  the  two,  paused  so,  motionless : — 
for  of  a  sudden  a  voice,  an  even,  passionless  voice,  was 
speaking. 

"  You  don't  know  me  even  yet,  do  you,  Eliza 
beth?  "  it  chided.  Just  a  step  the  speaker  moved 
backward,  and  for  the  first  time  he  recognised  the 
white  man's  presence.  His  eyes  were  steady  and 
level.  His  voice,  unbelievably  low  in  contrast  to 


Sacrifice  263 

that  of  the  other,  when  he  again  spoke  was  even  as 
before. 

"  I  won't  forgive  you  for  what  youVe  just  done. 
Mr.  Craig,"  he  said.  "  I'll  merely  forget  that  you've 
done  anything  at  all.  One  thing  I  expect,  however, 
and  that  is  that  you'll  not  interrupt  again.  You  may 
listen  or  not,  as  you  wish.  Later,  I  may  have  a  word 
to  say  to  you;  but  now  there  is  nothing  to  be  said.'* 
Just  a  moment  longer  the  look  held,  a  moment 
wherein  the  other  man  felt  his  tongue  grow  dumb; 
then  with  the  old  impassivity,  the  old  isolation,  the 
black  eyes  shifted  until  they  rested  on  the  face  of  the 
girl. 

But  for  still  another  moment — he  was  as  deliberate 
as  nature  herself,  this  man — he  stood  so,  looking 
down.  Always  slender,  he  had  grown  more  so  these 
last  weeks.  Moreover,  he  had  the  look  of  one  weary 
unto  death.  His  black  eyes  were  bright,  mysteriously 
bright,  and  on  his  thin  hands,  folded  across  his  chest, 
the  veins  stood  out  full  and  prominent;  but  look  where 
one  would  on  the  lithe  body,  the  muscles  lay  distinct 
beneath  the  close-fitting  clothes,  distinct  to  emaciation. 
Standing  there  now,  very  grave,  very  repressed,  there 
was  nevertheless  no  reproach  in  his  expression,  no 
trace  of  bitterness;  only  a  haunting  tenderness,  infinite 
in  its  pathos.  When  he  spoke  the  same  incredible 
tolerance  throbbed  in  the  low-pitched  voice. 

"  I've  just  a  few  things  I  wish  to  say  to  you,  Bess," 
he  began,  "  and  a  request  to  make — and  that  is  all. 
I  didn't  come  back  so,  unexpectedly,  to  be  unpleasant, 


264  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

or  to  interfere  with  what  you  wish  to  do.  I  came  be 
cause  I  fancied  you  were  going  to  do  an  unwise  thing : 
because  I  had  reason  to  believe  you  were  going  to  run 
away."  Unconsciously,  one  of  the  folded  hands 
loosened,  passed  absently  over  his  forehead;  then  re 
turned  abruptly  to  its  place.  "  Perhaps  I  was  mis 
taken.  If  so  I  beg  your  pardon  for  the  suspicion; 
but  at  least,  if  I  can  prevent,  I  don't  want  you  to  do 
so.  It's  this  I  came  to  tell  you."  Again  the  voice 
halted,  and  into  it  there  came  a  new  note:  a  self-con 
quered  throb  that  lingered  in  the  girl's  recollection 
while  memory  lasted. 

"It's  useless  to  talk  of  yourself  and  of  myself, 
Bess,"  he  went  on.  "  Things  are  as  they  are — and 
final.  I  don't  judge  you,  I — understand.  Above 
everything  else  in  life,  I  wish  you  to  be  happy;  and 
I  realise  now  I  can't  make  you  so.  Another  perhaps 
can;  I  hope  so  and  trust  so.  At  least  I  shall  not 
stand  in  your  way  any  longer.  It  is  that  I  came  to 
tell  you.  It  is  I  who  shall  leave  and  not  you,  Bess." 
Of  a  sudden  he  stepped  back  and  lifted  one  hand  free, 
preventingly.  "  Just  a  moment,  please,"  he  re 
quested.  "  Don't  interrupt  me  until  I  say  what  I 
came  to  say."  His  arms  folded  back  as  before,  his 
eyes  held  hers  compellingly. 

"  I  said  I  had  a  request  to  make.  This  is  it — that! 
you  don't  leave  until  you  are  married  again.  You 
won't  have  to  wait  long  if  I  leave.  I  have  inquired 
and  found  out.  A  few  days,  a  few  weeks  at  the  long 
est,  and  you  will  be  free.  Meanwhile  stay  here. 


Sacrifice  265 

Everything  is  yours.  I  never  owned  anything  except 
the  house,  and  that  is  yours  also."  For  the  last  time 
he  halted;  then  even,  distinct,  came  the  question 
direct.  ".Will  you  promise  me  this,  Bess?"  he 
asked. 

Save  once,  when  she  had  tried  to  interrupt,  the  girl 
had  listened  through  it  all  without  a  move,  without  a 
sound.  Now  that  he  was  silent,  and  it  was  her  turn 
to  speak,  she  still  stood  so,  passive,  waiting.  Ever  in 
times  of  stress  his  will  had  dominated  her  will;  and 
the  present  was  no  exception.  There  was  an  infinity 
of  things  she  might  have  said.  A  myriad  which  she 
should  have  spoken,  would  occur  to  her  when  he  was 
gone.  But  at  the  present,  when  the  opportunity  was 
hers,  there  seemed  nothing  to  offer;  nothing  to  gain 
say.  She  even  forgot  that  she  was  expected  to 
answer  at  all,  that  he  had  asked  a  question. 

"Won't  you  promise  me  this  one  thing,  Bess?" 
repeated  the  voice  gently.  "  I've  never  made  a 
request  of  you  before,  and  I  probably  never  shall 
again." 

At  last  the  girl  aroused;  and  of  a  sudden  she  real 
ised  that  her  lips  were  very  dry  and  hot.  She  mois 
tened  them  with  her  tongue. 

"  Yes,  How,"  she  said  dully,  "  I  promise." 

Silence  fell,  a  silence  deathly  in  its  significance,  in 
its  finality;  but  the  girl  did  not  break  it,  said  no  more 
— and  forever  the  moment,  her  moment,  vanished  into 
the  past. 

"  Thank  you,  Bess,"  acknowledged  the  man  mo 


266  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

notoriously.  Slowly,  strangely  different  from  his  usual 
alert  certainty,  he  moved  across  the  room.  ''  There 
are  just  a  few  things  here  I'd  like  to  take  with  me," 
he  explained  apologetically.  "  They'd  only  be  in  your 
way  if  I  left  them." 

With  a  hand  that  fumbled  a  bit,  he  took  down  a 
battered  telescope  satchel  from  a  peg  on  the  wall  and 
began  packing.  He  moved  about  slowly  here  and 
there,  his  moccasined  feet  patting  dully  on  the  bare 
floor.  No  one  offered  to  assist  him,  no  one  inter 
rupted;  and  in  dead  silence,  except  for  the  sound  he 
himself  made,  he  went  about  his  work.  Into  the 
satchel  went  a  few  books  from  the  shelf  on  the  wall : 
an  old  army  greatcoat  that  had  been  Colonel  William 
Lander's:  a  weather-stained  cap  which  had  been  a 
present  likewise :  a  handful  of  fossils  he  had  gathered 
in  one  of  his  journeys  to  the  Bad  Lands:  an  inexpen 
sive  trinket  here  and  there,  that  the  girl  herself  had 
made  for  him.  The  satchel  was  small,  and  soon,  piti 
fully  soon,  it  was  full.  A  moment  thereafter  he  stood 
beside  it,  looking  about  him;  then  with  an  effort  he 
put  on  the  cover  and  began  tightening  the  straps. 
The  leather  was  old  and  the  holes  large,  but  he  found 
difficulty  even  then  in  fastening  the  buckles.  At  last, 
though,  it  was  done,  and  he  straightened.  Both  the 
white  man  and  the  girl  were  watching  him;  but  no 
one  spoke.  For  the  second  time,  the  last  time,  the 
Indian  stood  so  while  his  intense  black  eyes  shifted 
from  nook  to  nook,  taking  in  every  detail  of  the  place 
that  had  once  been  his  heaven,  his  nest,  but  now  his  no 


Sacrifice  267 

more;  then  of  a  sudden  he  lifted  his  burden  and 
started  to  leave.  Opposite  the  girl  he  paused  and 
held  out  his  hand. 

"  Good-bye,  Bess,"  he  said.  He  looked  her  deep 
in  the  eyes,  deep  into  her  very  soul.  "  If  I  knew 
what  religion  is,  I'd  say  God  bless  you,  girl;  but  I 
don't,  so  I'll  only  say  good-bye — and — I  wish  you 
happiness."  Just  a  moment  longer  he  remained  so; 
then  at  something  he  saw,  he  dropped  her  hand  and 
drew  away  swiftly,  preventingly. 

"  Don't,  Bess,"  he  pleaded,  "  don't  say  it — *s  you 
cared  for  me  once.  Don't  make  things  any  harder — 
make  them  impossible!"  Desperately,  without  an 
other  pause,  ere  she  could  disobey,  he  started  for 
the  door.  Beside  the  entrance — for  he  was  not 
watching  these  last  minutes — stood  the  white  man; 
and  just  for  a  moment  at  his  side  the  Indian  halted. 
Despite  the  will  of  Clayton  Craig,  their  eyes  met. 
For  an  instant,  wherein  time  lapsed,  they  stood  face  to 
face;  then  swiftly  as  he  did  everything,  now  the  In 
dian  spoke :  and,  as  once  befor/  in  his  life,  those  words 
and  the  look  that  accompanie4  them  went  with  the 
alien  to  his  grave. 

"  As  for  you,  Mr.  Craig,"  said  the  voice,  "  I  have 
one  thing  only  to  say.  Make  Bess  happy.  There's 
nothing  in  the  world  to  prevent  your  doing  so,  if  you 
will.  If  you  do  not "  a  pause  of  horrible  ice- 
cold  menace — "  if  you  do  not,"  repeated,  "  suicide." 
Just  for  the  fraction  of  a  second  not  a  civilised  man 
but  a  savage  stared  the  listener  in  the  face.  "  I  shall 


268  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

know  if  you  fail,  and  believe  me,  it  were  better,  a 
thousand  times  better,  if  you  do  as  I  say." 

Again,  as  beside  the  girl,  there  was  a  mute,  throb 
bing  lapse;  then,  similarly  before  there  coidd  be  an 
answer,  upon  the  tense  silence  there  broke  the  swift 
pat  of  moccasined  feet,  and  he  was  gone. 


Chapter  XVIII 

REWARD 

THE  month  was  late  September.  The  time,  evening. 
The  place,  the  ranch  house  of  a  rawboned  Yankee 
named  Hawkins.  Upon  the  scene  at  the  hour  the 
supper  table  was  spread  appeared  a  traveller  in  an 
open  road  waggon.  The  vehicle  was  covered  with 
dust.  The  team  which  drew  it  were  dust-stained 
likewise,  and  in  addition,  on  belly  and  legs,  were  cov 
ered  with  a  white  powder-like  frost  where  the  sweat 
had  oozed  to  the  hair  tips  and  dried.  Without  an 
nouncing  his  arrival  or  deigning  the  formality  of  ask 
ing  permission,  the  newcomer  unhitched  and  put  his 
team  in  the  barn.  From  a  convenient  bin  he  took  out 
a  generous  feed,  and  from  a  stack  beside  the  eaves  he 
brought  them  hay  for  the  night.  This  done,  he 
started  for  the  house.  A  minute  later,  again  without 
form  of  announcement  or  seeking  permission,  he 
opened  the  ranch  house  door  and  stepped  inside. 

Within  the  room,  beside  a  table  with  an  oilcloth 
cover,  four  men  were  eating.  A  fifth,  a  dark-skinned 
Mexican,  was  standing  by  a  stove  in  one  corner  bak 
ing  pancakes.  All  looked  up  as  the  door  opened. 
Theft,  curiosity  satisfied,  the  eyes  of  all  save  one,  the 
proprietor,  Hawkins,  returned  to  their  plates,  and  the 
r/ttle  of  steel  on  heavy  queensware  proceeded. 

*  Good-evening,"  recognised  the  Yankee  laconic- 
269 


270  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

ally.  He  hitched  along  his  chair  until  a  space  was 
clear  at  his  elbow.  "  Draw  up  and  fall  to,  stranger. 
Bring  the  gentleman  a  chair,  Pete." 

In  silence  the  Mexican  obeyed,  and  in  equal  silence 
returned  to  his  work. 

Appetites  are  keen  on  the  prairie,  and  not  until 
the  meal  was  complete  was  there  further  conversa 
tion.  Then  after,  one  by  one,  the  cowmen  had  filed 
out  of  doors,  the  host  produced  two  corn-cob  pipes 
from  a  shelf  on  the  wall  and  tendered  one  across  the 
littered  table. 

"  Smoke?  "  he  again  invited  laconically. 

The  visitor  fumbled  in  the  pockets  of  his  coat  and 
.drew  out  a  couple  of  cigars. 

"  Better  have  one  of  these  instead,"  he  suggested. 

Hawkins  accepted  in  silence,  and  thereafter — for 
cigars  were  a  rarity  on  the  frontier — puffed  half  the 
length  of  the  weed  in  wordless  content.  The  Mex 
ican  went  impassively  about  his  work,  cleared  the  table 
and  washed  the  dishes  methodically.  The  labour 
complete,  he  rolled  a  cigarette  swiftly  and,  followed 
by  a  vanishing  trail  of  blue,  disappeared  likewise  out 
of  doors.  Then,  and  not  until  then,  the  visitor  in 
troduced  himself. 

"  My  name's  Manning,  Bob  Manning,"  he  said. 
"  I  run  the  store  over  at  the  Centre." 

The  host  scrutinised  his  guest,  deliberately,  reminis- 
cently 

"  I  thought  there  was  something  familiar  about 
yo***n  *ae  commented  at  last.  "  I  haven't  seen  you 


Reward  271 

for  twenty  years;  but  I  remember  you  now.  You're 
one  of  the  bunch  who  was  with  Bill  Landor  that  time 
he  picked  up  the  two  kids." 

It  was  the  guest's  turn  to  make  critical  inspection. 

"  You  wouldn't  remember  me,"  explained  the 
rancher.  "  I  came  in  while  you  were  gone,  and  only 
saw  you  the  day  you  returned."  The  reminiscent 
look  reappeared.  "  I  used  to  know  Landor  pretty 
well  when  we  were  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  be 
fore  the  country  settled  up;  but  when  we  came  over 
here  we  got  too  far  apart  and  lost  track  of  each 
other." 

The  visitor  smoked  a  full  minute  in  meditative  si 
lence.  At  last  he  glanced  up. 

"You  knew  he  was  dead,  didn't  you?" 

"  Yes.  And  the  two  youngsters  grew  up  and  got 

married  and "  Hawkins  laughed  peculiarly — 

"  made  a  fizzle  of  it." 

"  Knew  them  personally,  did  you?  "  queried  Man 
ning. 

"  No.  I  haven't  seen  the  young  folks  for  ten 
years,  and  I  haven't  even  heard  anything  of  them  for 
six  months  now."  He  twirled  the  cigar  with  his 
fingers  in  the  self-consciousness  of  unaccustomed 
gossip.  "'  The  girl  went  East  with  Landor's  nephew, 
Craig,  afterward,  I  understood." 

"  Yes." 

Hawkins  puffed  at  the  cigar  fiercely;  then  blew  an 
avenue  in  the  cloud  of  smoke  obscuring  his  com 
panion's  face. 


272  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

"  I'm  not  usually  so  confoundedly  curious,"  he 
apologised,  "  but,  knowing  the  circumstances,  I've 
often  wondered  how  the  affair  ended.  Did  they  hit 
it  off  well  together?" 

Manning  settled  farther  back  in  his  chair.  One 
(of  his  gnarled  old  hands  fastened  of  a  sudden  upon 
'the  arm  tightly. 

"  While  the  money  lasted,  yes." 

"  Money!     Did  they  sell  the  ranch?  " 

"  Mortgaged  it,  Craig  did,  until  he  couldn't  get 
another  cent." 

"  And  then " 

"  It's  the  old  story." 

"  They  went  to  pieces  ?  " 

"  Craig  left  her — for  another  woman."  The 
clawlike  hands  closed  tighter  and  tighter.  "  He 
never  really  cared  for  Bess.  He  couldn't.  It  seems 
he  was  supporting  the  other  woman  all  the  time." 

Hawkins  sat  chewing  the  stump  of  the  cigar  in 
silence.  In  a  lean-to  the  cowboys  were  going  to  bed. 
Muffled  by  the  intervening  wall  came  the  mocking 
•sound  of  their  intermittent  laughter. 

"  And  then  what?  "  asked  the  rancher  at  last. 

"  Bess  came  back." 

"Alone?" 

Manning  had  sunk  deeper  and  deeper  into  his  seat 
His  face  was  concealed  by  the  straggling  grey  beard, 
but  beneath  his  shaggy  brows  his  old  eyes  were 
blazing. 

"  Yes,  she  was  alone,"  he  said. 


Reward  273 

The  cigar  had  gone  dead  In  Hawkins's  lips,  and  he 
lit  it  jerkily.  The  blaze  of  the  match  illumined  a  face 
that  was  not  pleasant  to  look  upon. 

"  And  Craig  himself,"  he  suggested,  "  where  is 
he?" 

"He's  back  at  the  ranch  by  this  time.  He  went 
through  town  yesterday,  just  before  I  left,  with  a 
man  who  wants  to  buy." 

The  rancher  looked  at  the  other  meaningly. 

"  Back  at  the  ranch — with  the  Indian?  " 

Equally  directly  Manning  returned  the  look. 

"  Evidently  you  didn't  hear  all  the  story,"  he  said. 
"  The  Indian  is  not  there." 

"  No?  "  swiftly.     "  Where  is  he?  " 

Manning's  free  hand,  his  distorted  hand,  caught  at 
the  table  before  him. 

"  That's  what  I  came  to  ask  you,"  he  returned 
equally  swiftly.  "  He  came  here,  to  work  for  you, 
six  months  ago,  when  he  left  Bess.  Do  you  mean  to 
tell  me  you  don't  know  where  he  is  gone?  " 

Face  to  face  the  two  men  sat  staring  at-  each  other. 
The  sounds  from  the  lean-to  had  ceased.  In  the  si 
lence  they  could  hear  each  other  breathing.  For  per 
haps  a  minute  they  sat  so;  while  bit  by  bit  on  the 
rancher's  face  incredulity  merged  into  belief,  and  be 
lief  into  understanding  perfect. 

"Know  where  he  is?  Of  course  I  do — now." 
He  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "  To  think  that  I  never 
suspicioned  who  he  was  all  the  time  he  was  here,  or 
even  when  he  left.  I'm  an  ass,  an  ass  1  " 


274  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

"Well,  where  is  he?"  Manning  hadn't  stirred. 
He  did  not  now.  "  Tell  me  where  he  is,  if  you 
know." 

"  About  twelve  miles  from  here,  unless  he's 
changed  camp  in  the  last  week."  The  rancher  looked 
at  the  other  understandingly.  "  He  worked  for  me 
until  about  a  month  ago.  Then  he  left  and  started 
away  alone.  We  never  got  a  word  out  of  him  while 
he  was  here,  not  even  his  name."  Of  a  sudden  came 
realisation  complete,  and  his  great  bony  fist  crashed 
on  the  board.  "  I'm  dull  as  a  post,  but  I  begin  to 
understand  at  last,  and  I'm  with  you  absolutely.  I'll 
take  you  there  to-night,  it  won't  be  a  two-hour  drive. 
I'll  hitch  up  right  now  if  you're  ready." 

For  the  first  time  in  the  last  tense  minutes  Manning 
relaxed.  The  hand  on  the  chair  arm  loosened  its 

grip- 

"  I'm  glad  you  know  where  he  is,"  he  said  unemo 
tionally.  "  I  don't  think  we'll  go  to-night,  though." 
He  fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  produced  two  fresh 
cigars.  One  he  slid  across  the  table  to  the  other  man 
and  lit  its  mate  carefully.  "  I  don't  think  we'd  better 
both  go  anyway.  In  the  morning  you  can  fit  me  out 
with  a  fresh  team,  if  you  will.  I  crowded  things  a 
bit  on  the  way  up." 

For  a  moment  the  rancher  sat  staring  at  his  guest 
blankly,  unbelievingly;  then  for  the  second  time  came 
understanding. 

"  Perhaps  after  all  you're  right,"  he  acquiesced. 
"  It's  only  eighty  miles,  and  there's  plenty  of  time." 


Reward  275 

Beneath  the  craggy  brows  the  blaze  still  glowed 
undimmed  in  the  old  storekeeper's  deep-set  eyes. 

"  Yes,  there's  plenty  of  time — after  How  Landor 
;knows,"  he  said. 

In  the  midst  of  the  prairie  wilderness  Providence 
had  placed  a  tiny  dawdling  creek.  At  a  point  where 
the  creek  wandered  through  a  spot  a  shade  lower  than 
the  surrounding  country,  man,  a  man,  had  builded  a 
dam.  In  the  fulness  of  time  the  accumulated  water 
had  formed  a  fair-sized  pond  that  glittered  and  shim 
mered  in  the  sunlight,  until  from  a  little  altitude  it 
could  be  seen  for  miles.  To  this  pond,  for  open 
water  was  very,  very  scarce  on  the  prairie  in  Septem 
ber,  came  water  fowl  from  near  and  afar;  from  no 
man  knew  where.  As  steel  filings  respond  to  a  mag 
net,  they  came,  and  as  inevitably;  stragglingly,  sus 
piciously  by  day,  in  flocks  that  grew  to  be  a  perfect 
cloud  by  night.  A  tent  that  had  once  been  white, 
but  that  was  now  weather-stained  and  darkened  by 
smoke,  was  pitched  near  at  hand;  but  they  minded  it 
not.  An  evil-looking  mouse-coloured  cayuse  grazed 
likewise,  hard  by;  but  for  them  a  broncho  had  no 
terror.  A  rough  blind,  ingeniously  fashioned  from 
weeds  and  grasses,  stood  at  the  water's  edge;  yet  again 
even  of  this  they  were  unsuspicious.  Now  and  anon, 
at  long  intervals,  something  happened,  something 
startlingly  sudden,  bewilderingly  loud;  and  in  blind 
terror  they  would  take  wing  and  vanish  temporarily, 
like  smoke.  But  this  something  never  pursued  them, 


276  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

never  repeated  itself  the  same  day,  and  invariably 
after  a  time  they  came  back,  to  take  up  anew,  with  the 
confidence  of  children,  the  careless  thread  of  their  life 
where  it  had  been  interrupted. 

Thus  it  had  been  for  days  past.  Thus  it  was  of  a 
certain  morning  in  late  September.  Though  it  was 
ten  of  the  clock,  they  were  still  there:  sleepy  brown 
mallards,  glossy-winged  teal,  long-necked  shovellers, 
greyish  speckled  widgeon:  these  and  others  less  com 
mon,  representatives  of  all  the  native  tribe.  Happy 
as  nature  the  common  mother  intended,  as  irresponsi 
bly  idle,  they  dawdled  here  and  there,  back  and  forth 
while  time  drifted  swiftly  by;  and  unknown  to  them, 
concealed  from  view  within  the  blind,  a  dark-skinned 
man  lay  watching. 

Since  before  daylight,  ere  they  were  yet  awake,  he 
had  been  there.  On  soundless  moccasined  feet  he 
had  come.  Motionless  as  an  inanimate  thing,  he  had 
remained.  Not  two  rods  away  the  flock  were  feed 
ing.  More  than  once  the  water  they  carelessly  spat 
tered  had  fallen  upon  him;  but  he  did  not  stir.  He 
had  no  gun  or  weapon  of  any  kind.  Though  they 
were  within  stone's  throw,  he  had  not  brought  even  a 
rock.  Unbelievable  to  an  Anglo-Saxon  sportsman,  he 
merely  lay  there  observing  them.  With  that  object 
he  had  come;  for  this  purpose  he  remained.  A  long 
dark  statue,  he  peered  through  the  woven  grasses 
steadily,  admiringly;  with  an  instinctive  companion 
ship,  a  mute  forbearance,  that  was  haunting  in  its  rev 
elation.  Lonely  as  death  itself  were  the  surround- 


(Reward1  277 

ing  unbroken  prairies.  Lonely  as  a  desert  of  sand, 
their  absolute  isolation.  Lonely  beyond  comparison, 
beyond  the  suggestion  of  language,  was  that  silent 
human  in  their  midst  this  autumn  day. 

How  long  he  would  have  remained  there  so,  idly 
watching,  no  one  could  have  told;  the  man  himself 
could  not  have  told;  for  at  last,  interrupting,  awak 
ening,  a  new  actor  appeared.  Answering,  with  a 
great  quacking  and  beating  of  webbed  feet,  the  flock 
sprang  a-wing;  and  almost  before  the  shower  of  water 
drops  they  scattered  in  their  wake  had  ceased,  a  road 
waggon,  with  a  greybearded  old  man  on  the  seat, 
drew  up  beside  the  tent. 

Then,  for  the  first  time  in  hours,  the  Indian  arose 
and  stretched  himself.  Still  in  silence  he  came  back 
to  where  the  newcomer  was  waiting. 

They  exchanged  the  conventionalities,  and  there 
after  the  white  man  sat  eyeing  the  other  peculiarly, 
analytically. 

"Well,  where's  your  game?"  he  queried  at  last. 
'  There  seemed  to  be  enough  around  when  I  came." 

The  Indian  smiled;  the  smile  of  one  accustomed  to 
being  misunderstood. 

"  I  wasn't  hunting,"  he  said.  "  I  was  merely 
watching." 

A  moment  longer  Manning  continued  the  inspec 
tion  ;  then  with  an  effort  he  dismounted. 

"  I  was  over  to  see  Hawkins  yesterday  on  busi 
ness,"  he  digressed  abruptly,  "  and  he  said  you  were 
out  here  somewhere,  so  I  thought  before  I  went  bacH 


278  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

I'd  look  you  up."  The  man  was  not  accustomed  to 
dissimulation,  and  the  explanation  halted  lamely. 
"  If  you  don't  mind  I'll  go  inside  and  smoke  a  bit." 

In  silence  the  Indian  led  the  way  to  the  tent  and 
buttoned  back  the  flap.  There  was  but  one  chair  and 
he  indicated  it  impassively. 

"  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said  then  simply. 

Manning  lit  a  pipe  clumsily  with  his  crippled  hand, 
and  thereafter  drew  on  it  deliberately  until  the  con 
tents  of  the  bowl  were  aglow.  Even  then,  however, 
he  did  not  speak.  That  which  had  been  on  his  mind 
trembled  now  at  the  tip  of  his  tongue.  The  one  for 
whose  ear  the  information  was  intended  was  waiting, 
listening;  yet  he  delayed.  With  the  suddenness  of  a 
revelation,  in  those  last  minutes,  there  had  come  to  the 
old  storekeeper  an  appreciation  of  the  other  he  had 
never  felt  before.  The  message  of  the  artificial  pond 
and  the  harmless  watcher  at  its  edge  had  begun  the 
alteration.  A  glimpse  of  the  barren  interior  of  the 
tent,  with  a  pathetic  little  group  of  valueless  trinkets 
arranged  with  infinite  care  on  a  tiny  folding  table, 
added  its  testimony.  The  sight  of  the  man  himself, 
standing  erect  in  the  doorway,  gazing  immovably  out 
over  the  sunlit  earth,  looking  and  waiting,  but  asking 
no  question,  completed  the  impression.  He  had 
known  this  repressed  human  long  and,  as  he  fancied, 
well;  but  now  of  a  sudden  he  realised  that  in  fact  he 
had  not  known  him  at  all.  Fearless  unquestionably 
he  had  found  him  to  be.  That  in  a  measure  he  was 
civilised,  he  had  taken  for  granted;  but  more  than 


Reward  279 

this,  that  he  was  an  individual  among  individuals,  that 
beneath  that  emotionless  exterior  there  lay.  a  subtle, 
indescribable  something  inadequately  termed  soul, 
with  the  supercilious  superiority  of  the  white  he  had 
ignored.  Before  he  had  been  merely  a  puppet:  the 
play  actor  of  an  inferior,  conquered  race.  Injustice, 
horrible,  unforgivable  injustice,  with  this  being  one 
of  the  injured,  had  been  done  in  the  white  man's 
sight;  and  instinctively  he  had  come  to  him  as  the 
agent  of  Providence  calculated  to  mete  out  retribution. 
That  an  irresponsible,  relentless  savage  lurked  be 
neath  the  thin  veneer  of  alien  civilisation  he  had  taken 
for  granted,  and  builded  thereon.  Now  with  dis 
concerting  finality  he  realised  the  thing  he  was  doing. 
It  was  not  a  mere  agent  of  divine  punishment  he  was 
calling  to  action ;  but  a  fellow  human  being,  an  equal, 
with  whose  affairs  he  was  arbitrarily  meddling. 
Whatever  the  motive  that  had  inspired  his  coming, 
however  justifiable  in  itself,  his  interference,  as  a 
mere  spectator,  was  under  the  circumstances  unjus 
tified  and  an  impertinence.  This  he  realised  with 
startling  suddenness;  and  swift  in  its  wake  came  a  new 
point  of  view,  a  readjustment  absolute  in  his  attitude. 
Under  its  influence  the  dissimulation  of  a  moment  ago 
vanished.  From  out  of  concealment  he  came  fair 
into  the  open.  What  he  knew  he  would  reveal — if 
the  other  wished;  but  it  was  for  the  Indian  to  request, 
not  him  to  proffer.  With  the  decision  he  aroused. 
In  the  interval  his  pipe  had  gone  dead  and  he  lit  it 
afresh  suggestively. 


280  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

"  I  lied  to  you  a  bit  ago,  How,"  he  confessed 
abruptly.  "  It  was  not  Hawkins  I  came  to  see  at 
all,  but  you." 

The  dark  statue  did  not  turn,  showed  no  sign  of 
surprise*. 

"  I  thought  so,"  it  said  simply. 

Puff,  puff  went  the  white  man's  pipe,  until  even 
though  it  was  daylight,  the  glow  lit  up  his  face. 

"  You  did  me  a  service  once,"  he  continued  at  last, 
"  a  big  service — and  I've  not  forgotten.  I'll  go  now, 
or  stay,  as  you  wish." 

Still  the  Indian  stood  in  the  doorway  looking  out 
into  the  careless,  smiling  infinite. 

"  I  understand.  You  have  something  to  tell  me, 
something  you  think  I  should  know." 

The  old  man  thumbed  the  ashes  in  the  pipe  bowl 
absently. 

"  I  repeat,  it  is  for  you  to  choose." 

Silence  fell;  a  lapse  so  long  that,  old  man  as  he 
was,  Manning  felt  his  heart  beat  more  swiftly  in  an 
ticipation.  Then  at  last  the  Indian  moved.  Deliber 
ately,  noiselessly  he  turned.  Equally  deliberately  he 
drew  a  robe  opposite  his  visitor  and,  still  very  erect, 
sat  down  on  the  ground — his  long  fingers  locked 
across  his  knees. 

"  I  choose  to  listen,"  he  said.     "  Tell  me,  please." 

For  the^  second  time,  because  he  needs  must  be  do 
ing  something,  the  white  man  filled  his  pipe.  The 
hand  that  held  the  tobacco  pouch  shook  a  bit  now 


Reward  281 

involuntarily,  and  a  tiny  puff  of  the  brown  flakes  fell 
scattering  outside  the  bowl  onto  his  knee. 

•"  About  a  month  ago  " — the  speaker  cleared  his 
throat  raspingly — "  on  August  i6th  it  was,  to  be  ex 
act,  there  was  a  funeral  in  town.  It  started  from  the 
C-C  ranch  house  and  ended  in  the  same  lot  with  Mary 
Landor.  It  wasn't  much  of  a  funeral,  either.  Be 
sides  myself  and  Mrs.  Burton  no  one  was  there." 
'Again  the  voice  halted;  and  following  there  came  the 
sharp  crackling  of  a  match,  and  the  quick  puff,  puff 
of  an  habitual  smoker.  "  It  was  the  funeral  of  a 
child:  a  child  half  Indian,  half  white." 

Again  the  story  paused;  but  the  steady  smoking 
continued. 

"  Go  on,  please,"  requested  a  voice. 

"  Early  yesterday  morning  " —  again  the  narra 
tor  halted  perforce,  to  clear  his  throat — "  just  before 
I  left  three  men  went  through  town  on  their  way  to 
the  same  ranch.  One  was  the  owner,  another  a 
lawyer,  the  third  a  man  who  wished  to  buy.  They 
were  in  a  hurry.  They  only  stopped  to  water  their 
team  and  to  visit  Red  Jennings's  place.  They  are  at 
the  ranch  house  closing  the  bargain  now." 

"  Yes,"  repeated  the  voice,  "  I'm  listening." 

The  speaker  did  not  respond  at  once.  With  the 
trick  of  the  very  aged  when  they  relax,  in  the  past 
minutes  he  seemed  to  have  contracted  physically,  to 
have  shrunk,  as  it  were,  within  himself.  The  ner 
vousness  and  uncertainty  of  a  moment  ago  had  passed 


282  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

now  absolutely.  The  deep-set  eyes  of  him  were  of  a 
sudden  glowing  ominously  as  they  had  done  when 
telling  the  same  tale  to  Rancher  Hawkins  the  night 
before ;  but  that  was  all.  His  voluntary  offering  was 
given ;  more  than  this  must  come  by  request. 

"  I  have  nothing  more  to  say — unless  you  wish," 
he  repeated  in  the  old  formula. 

For  a  second  time  silence  fell;  to  be  broken  again 
by  the  crackling  of  a  match  in  the  white  man's  hand. 
Following,  as  though  prompted  by  the  sound,  came  a 
question. 

"  Why," — the  Indian  did  not  stir,  but  his  eyes  had 
shifted  until  they  looked  immovably  into  those  of  his 
companion, — "  why,  please,  was  not  the  mother  of 
the  child  at  least  at  the  funeral?  " 

44  Because  she  could  not  come,"  impassively. 
44  The  baby  was  less  than  two  days  old." 

44  She  had  been  back,  though,  back  at  the  ranch, 
for  some  time?  " 

44  Yes.     Several  weeks." 

44  She  returned  alone?  " 

44  Yes." 

"  And  to  stay?" 

Swifter  and  more  swiftly  came  the  questions.  Even 
yet  no  muscle  of  the  inquisitor's  body  stirred;  but  in 
the  black  eyes  a  light  new  to  the  other  man,  ominous 
in  its  belated  appearance,  was  kindling. 

44  Yes,"  answered  Manning. 

44  She,  Bess,  had  left  her  husband?  " 

44  No,  Craig  had  left  her." 


Reward  283 

Suddenly,  instinctively,  the  impersonal  had  been 
dropped;  but  neither  man  noticed  the  change. 

"'  There  was  a  reason?  " 

"  Yes,"  baldly.     "  Another  woman." 

The  locked  fingers  across  the  Indian's  knee  were 
growing  white;  white  as  the  sunlight  without. 

"And  now  he  has  returned,  you  say,  to  sell  the 
ranch,  her  ranch?  " 

"  It  is  her  ranch  no  more.     It  is  his." 

"  She,  Bess,  gave  it  to  him  after  all  that  had  hap 
pened,  all  that  he  had  done?  You  mean  to  tell  me 
this?" 

Abruptly,  instinctively,  for  the  end  was  very  close 
at  hand,  the  white  man  got  to  his  feet,  stood  so  silent. 

;<  Tell  me."  The  Indian  was  likewise  erect,  his 
dark  face  standing  clear  against  the  white  background 
of  the  tent  wall.  "  Did  Bess  do  this  thing?  " 

"  No,"  said  a  voice.  "  It  came  to  him  in  another 
way." 

"  Another  way!  "  swiftly.  "  Another  way!  "  re 
peated.  "Another  way!"  for  the  third  time;  and 
then  a  halt.  For  that  moment  realisation  had  come. 
"  There  could  be  but  one  other  way!  " 

Swiftly,  instinctively,  the  white  man  turned  about, 
until  the  face  opposite  was  hid.  Hardened  frontiers 
man  as  he  was,  prepared  for  the  moment  as  he  had 
thought  himself,  he  could  not  watch  longer.  To  do 
so  was  sacrilege  unqualified.  In  his  youth  the  man 
had  been  a  hunter  of  big  game.  Of  a  sudden  now, 
horribly  distinct,  he  had  a  vision  of  the  expression  in 


284  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

the  eyes  of  a  great  moose,  mortally  wounded,  when 
at  the  end  he  himself  had  drawn  the  knife.  Under 
its  influence  he  halted,  waiting,  postponing  the  in 
evitable. 

"  There  could  be  but  one  other  way,"  repeated  the 
voice  slowly,  repressedly.  "  Tell  me,  please.  Let 
me  know  all.  Am  I  not  right?  " 

To  hesitate  longer  was  needless  cruelty;  and  in  in 
finite  pity,  the  blow  fell. 

"  Yes,  How,"  said  Manning  gently,  "  Bess  is 
dead." 


Chapter  XIX 

IN  SIGHT   OF  GOD  ALONE 

AN  hour  had  passed.  Manning  had  gone;  and  on1 
the  horizon  to  the  east  whither  he  had  taken  his  way 
not  even  a  dot  now  indicated  his  former  presence. 
Even  the  close-fed  grass  whereon  the  wheels  of  the 
old  road  waggon  had  temporarily  blazed  a  trail  had 
returned  normally  erect.  Suddenly,  as  a  rain  cloud 
forms  over  the  parched  earth,  the  storm  had  gathered 
and  broken;  and  passed  on  as  though  it  had  not  been. 
All  about  smiled  the  sunshine;  sarcastic,  isolate  as 
though  it  had  seen  nothing,  heard  nothing.  On  the 
surface  of  the  pond  the  ducks,  again  returned,  swam 
and  splashed  and  dawdled  in  their  endless  holiday. 
The  eternal  breeze  of  the  prairie  noontime,  drifting 
leisurely  by,  sang  its  old,  old  song  of  abandon  and  of 
peace.  Not  in  the  merest  detail  had  nature,  the 
serene,  altered;  not  by  the  minutest  trifle  had  she  de 
viated  from  her  customary  course.  Man  alone  it  is 
who  changes  to  conform  with  the  passing  mood.  Man 
alone  it  was  amid  this  primitive  setting  who  had 
altered  now. 

For  How  Landor,  the  Indian,  was  no  longer  idle 
or  dreaming.  Instead,  his  every  action  was  that  of 
one  with  a  definite  purpose.  Yet  even  then  he  did  not 
hurry.  At  first  he  seemed  merely  to  be  going  about 

285 


286  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

the  ordinary  routine  of  his  life.  Methodically  he 
kindled  a  fire  and  prepared  himself  a  generous  meal. 
Deliberately,  fair  in  the  sunshine,  he  ate.  Then  for 
the  first  time  an  observer  who  knew  him  well  would 
have  detected  the  unusual.  Contrary  to  all  precedent 
the  dishes  were  not  washed  or  even  touched.  Instead, 
the  meal  complete,  he  went  swiftly  toward  the  tent 
and  disappeared  inside. 

For  minutes  he  remained  within,  moving  about 
from  place  to  place;  and  when  he  again  returned  it 
was  to  do  a  peculiar  thing  indeed.  In  his  arms  were 
several  articles  of  clothing  rolled  into  a  bulky  bundle. 
Without  a  halt  he  made  his  way  back  to  the  place 
where  he  had  eaten.  The  fire  which  he  had  builded 
had  burned  low  ere  this;  and,  standing  there  beside 
it,  he  scraped  away  the  ashes  with  the  toe  of  his  moc- 
casined  foot  until  the  glowing  embers  beneath  came  to 
view.  The  bundle  he  carried  had  opened  with  the 
action,  revealing  clearly  the  various  articles  of  which 
it  was  composed.  Outside  was  an  old  army-blue 
greatcoat;  within  a  battered  felt  hat  and  a  pair  of 
moccasins,  wholly  unused.  A  moment  the  Indian 
stood  looking  at  them  meditatively,  intensely;  then 
gently  as  though  they  were  a  lost  child  he  was  re 
turning  to  its  mother's  arms  he  laid  them  fair  upon 
the  glowing  coals.  Wool  is  slow  to  catch  ablaze  and 
for  the  moment  they  lay  there  black  against  the  brown 
earth;  then  of  a  sudden,  like  the  first  lifting  of  an 
Indian  signal  smoke,  a  tiny  column  of  blue  went  trail 
ing  upward.  Second  by  second  it  grew  until  with  a 


In  Sight  of  God  Alone  287 

muffled  explosion  the  whole  was  ablaze.  Before  the 
man  had  merely  stood  watching;  now  deliberately  as 
before,  yet  as  unhesitatingly,  he  returned  to  the 
tent. 

This  time  he  was  gone  longer;  and  when  he  re 
turned  it  was  with  an  armful  of  books — and  some 
thing  more.  The  fire  was  crackling  merrily  now,  and 
volume  by  volume  his  load  disappeared.  Then  for 
the  first  time  he  hesitated.  There  was  still  something 
to  destroy,  something  which  he  had  gathered  in  the 
old  felt  hat  from  off  his  own  head;  yet  he  hesitated. 
Greedy  as  a  hungry  animal  deprived  of  its  due  the  fire 
at  his  feet  kept  sending  out  spurts  of  flame  like  long 
ing  tentacles  toward  him;  yet  he  delayed.  Like  the 
sulky  thing  it  was,  it  had  at  last  drawn  back  into  pas 
sive  waiting,  when  of  a  sudden,  without  a  single 
glance,  the  man  laid  this  last  sacrifice,  as  he  had  done 
the  first,  gently  down.  But  this  time  he  did  not  watch 
the  end.  Swiftly,  his  bare  black  head  glistening  in 
the  sunlight,  he  started  away  toward  the  now  expec 
tant  broncho ;  and  back  of  him  the  pathetic  little  gath 
ering  of  useless  trinkets,  bearing  indelibly  the  mark 
of  a  woman's  handiwork,  a  woman's  trust,  mingled 
with  the  ashes  of  the  things  which  had  gone  before., 

Long  ere  the  fire  had  burned  itself  out,  the  wicked-  f 
looking  cayuse  following  a  bridle's  length  at  his  heels,' 
he  was  back;  waiting  impatiently  for  the  flame  to  die. 
No  frontiersman,  in  a  land  where  prairie  fires  spread 
as  the  breath  of  scandal,  ever  leaves  fire  alive  when 
out  of  his  sight;  and  to  this  instinct  the  Indian  was 


288  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

true.  Minute  after  minute  he  waited;  until  the  flame 
vanished  and  in  its  stead  there  lay  a  mass  of  blazing 
coals.  Then  with  a  practical  hand  he  banked  the 
whole  with  a  layer  of  earth  until,  look  where  one 
would,  not  a  dot  of  red  was  visible.  The  act  was  the 
last,  the  culmination  of  preparation.  At  its  end, 
with  a  single  spoken  command,  the  pony  was  along 
side;  his  head  high  in  the  air,  his  tiny  ears  flattened 
back  in  anticipation.  Well  he  knew  what  was  in 
store,  what  was  expected.  No  need  was  there  of  a 
second  command  nor  the  touch  of  a  bridle  rein. 
Almost  ere  the  taking  of  the  single  leap  that  put  the 
rider  in  his  seat  the  little  beast  was  away,  his  wide 
spread  nostrils  breathing  deep  of  the  prairie  air,  the 
patter  of  his  tiny  hoofs  a  continuous  song  upon  the 
close-cropped  sod.  As  two  human  beings  living  side 
by  side  grow  to  know  each  other,  so  this  dumb  menial 
had  grown  to  know  his  master.  With  a  certainty  at 
tributed  to  the  dog  alone  he  had  learned  to  recognise 
the  mood  of  the  hour.  He  did  so  now;  and  as  time 
passed  and  the  miles  flowed  monotonously  beneath  his 
galloping  feet  the  relentless  determination  of  the  man 
himself  was  repeated  in  that  undeviating  pace. 

Thus  the  journey  southward  was  begun.  Thus 
through  the  dragging  hours  of  the  September  after 
noon  it  continued.  Many  a  time  before  the  little 
beast  had  followed  the  trail  from  sun  to  sun.  As 
well  as  the  rider  knew  his  own  endurance  he  knew  the 
possibilities  of  his  mount,  knew  that  now  he  would 
not  fail.  He  did  not  attempt  to  quicken  the  pace,  nor 


In  Sigbt  of  God  Alone  289 

did  he  check  it.  He  spoke  no  word.  The  earth  was 
dry  as  tinder  in  the  annual  drouth  of  fall,  and  as  time 
passed  on  the  dust  the  pony  raised  collected  upon 
the  man's  clothes  and  upon  his  bare  head;  but  appar 
ently  he  noticed  it  not.  Shade  by  shade  the  mouse- 
coloured  hair  of  the  broncho  grew  darker  from  sweat, 
moistened  until  the  man's  hand  on  the  diminutive 
beast's  neck  grew  wet;  but  of  this  likewise  he  was 
unconscious.  Silent  as  fate,  as  nature  the  immova 
ble,  he  sat  his  place;  his  lithe  body  conforming  in 
voluntarily  to  the  motion,  to  the  play  of  muscles 
beneath  his  legs;  yet  as  unconsciously  as  one  breathes 
in  sleep.  Not  until  the  sun  was  red  in  the  west,  until 
of  its  own  accord  the  broncho  had  drawn  up  at  the 
first  bit  of  water  they  had  met  on  the  way — a  shallow 
marshy  pond — did  he  move.  Then,  while  the  pony 
drank  and  drank  his  fill,  the  man  washed  his  face  and 
hands,  and  more  from  instinct  than  volition,  shook 
the  dust  from  his  clothing. 

For  a  half  hour  thereafter  the  rider  did  not  mount. 
Side  by  side  the  man  and  the  beast  moved  ahead  at 
a  walk;  but  ever  moved  and  ever  southward.  Dark 
ness  fell  swiftly.  There  was  no  moon;  but  the  sky 
was  clear  as  it  had  been  during  the  day,  and  the  man 
needed  no  guide  but  the  stars  to  show  him  the  way. 
As  he  moved  the  hand  of  the  Indian  remained  on  the 
broncho's  neck;  and  bit  by  bit  as  the  time  passed  he 
felt  the  moist  hair  grow  stiff  and  dry.  Then,  and  not 
until  then,  came  the  final  move,  the  beginning  of  the 
last  relay.  As  when  they  had  started,  with  one  mo-( 


290  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

tion,  apparently  without  an  effort,  he  was  once  more  in 
his  seat;  and  again  as  at  first,  equally  understandingly, 
equally  willingly,  that  instant  the  broncho  sprang  into 
a  lope.  Relentlessly,  silent  as  before,  a  ghostly  ani 
mate  shadow,  the  two  forged  ahead  into  the  night  and 
the  solitude. 

Meanwhile,  for  the  second  time  within  the  year, 
the  C-C  ranch  had  changed  hands.  All  day  long 
Craig  and  the  prospective  buyer  had  driven  about  the 
place.  One  by  one  the  cowboys  had  given  testimony 
of  the  fraction  of  the  herd  intrusted  to  their  care.  At 
first  resignedly  complaisant,  as  the  hours  drifted  by 
Craig  had  grown  cumulatively  impatient  at  the  in 
evitably  dragging  inventory.  Nothing  but  necessity 
absolute  in  the  shape  of  an  imminent  foreclosure  had 
brought  him  back  to  this  land  at  all.  Delay  had  fol 
lowed  delay  until  at  last  immediate  action  was  im 
perative.  Then,  having  agreed  to  come  personally, 
he  was  in  a  fever  of  haste  to  have  the  deal  complete 
and  to  be  away.  Since  they  had  left  the  railroad  and 
crossed  the  river  the  mood  had  been  upon  him.  The 
team  that  had  brought  them  out  could  not  move  fast 
enough.  The  preceding  night,  shortened  by  liquor 
as  it  had  been,  nevertheless  dragged  interminably. 
Strive  as  he  might  to  combat  the  impression,  to  ignore 
it,  this  land  had  of  a  sudden  become  to  him  a  land 
of  terror.  Every  object  which  met  his  eye  called 
forth  a  recollection.  Every  minute  that  passed  whis 
pered  a  menace.  In  a  measure  it  had  been  so  a  half 


In  Sight  of  God  Alone  291 

year  ago  ere  he  had  tempted  fate.  Now,  with  the 
knowedge  of  what  had  occurred  in  that  time  staring 
him  in  the  face,  the  impression  augmented  immeasur 
ably,  haunted  him  like  a  ghostly  presence.  Not  for 
a  minute  since  his  return  had  he  been  alone.  Not  for 
an  instant  had  he  been  without  a  revolver  at  hand. 
All  the  previous  night,  despite  the  grumbling  protest 
of  the  overseer  with  whom  he  had  bunked,  a  lamp 
had  burned  beside  the  bed;  yet  even  then  he  could 
not  sleep.  Whether  or  no  he  felt  contrition  for  the 
past,  this  man,  he  could  not  have  told,  he  never  paused 
to  consider.  All  he  knew  was  that  he  had  a  deathly 
fear  of  this  silent  waste  and  of  a  certain  human  who 
dwelt  somewhere  therein.  Repugnant  as  consideration 
of  the  return  had  been,  it  was  as  nothing  compared 
with  the  reality.  Had  he  realised  in  advance  what 
the  actual  experience  of  his  coming  would  mean,  even 
the  consideration  of  money,  badly  as  he  needed  it, 
could  not  have  bought  his  presence.  Now  that  he  was 
here  he  must  needs  see  the  transaction  through;  he 
could  not  well  do  otherwise ;  but  as  the  afternoon  drew 
to  a  close  and  the  necessity  of  tarrying  a  second  night 
became  assured,  the  premonition  of  retribution,  that 
had  before  lowered  merely  as  a  possibility,  loomed 
into  the  proportions  of  certainty.  Then  it  was  that 
in  abandon  he  began  to  drink;  not  at  stated  intervals, 
as  had  been  his  habit,  but  frequently,  all  but  con 
tinuously,  until  even  his  tolerant  companions  had 
exchanged  glances  of  understanding. 

To  all  things,  however,  there  is  an  end,  and  at  last 


292  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

the  deal  was  complete.  Within  the  stuffy  living- 
room,  hazy  now  with  tobacco  smoke,  by  the  uncer 
tain  light  of  a  sputtering  kerosene  lamp  Craig  had 
accomplished  a  sprawling  signature  and  received  in 
return  a  check  on  a  Chicago  bank.  It  was  already 
late,  and  very  soon  the  new  owner,  with  a  significant 
look  at  a  half-drained  flask  by  the  other's  hand,  and 
a  curt  "  Good-night,"  had  departed  for  bed.  Im 
mediately  following,  with  a  thinly  veiled  apology,  the 
lawyer  had  likewise  excused  himself,  and  Craig  and 
his  one-time  overseer  were  alone.  For  five  minutes 
thereafter  the  two  men  sat  so  in  silence;  then,  at  last, 
despite  his  muddled  brain,  the  former  realised  that 
the  big  Irishman  was  observing  him  with  a  concentra 
tion  that  was  significant.  Ever  short  of  temper,  the 
man's  nerves  were  stretched  to  the  ja»gling  point  this 
night,  and  the  look  irritated  him.  Responsive,  he 
scowled  prodigiously. 

"  Well,"  he  queried  impatiently,  "  what  is  it?  " 

No  answer;  only,  if  possible,  the  look  became  more 
analytic  than  before. 

"  What's  on  your  mind?  "  repeated  Craig.  "  You 
make  me  nervous  staring  that  way.  Speak  up  if 
you've  got  anything  to  say.  Don't  you  like  my  sell 
ing  and  putting  you  out  of  a  job?  " 

"  No,  it's  not  that,"  refuted  the  Hibernian. 
"  There  are  plenty  of  other  places  I  can  get.  I  could 
stay  right  here  for  that  matter  if  I  wanted  to — but  I 
don't.  I  wouldn't  live  in  this  house  any  longer  if  my 
pay  were  doubled."  As  he  spoke  he  had  looked 


In  Sight  of  God  Alone  293 

away.     Now  of  a  sudden  his  glance  returned.     "  I 
meant  to  quit  anyway,  whether  you  sold  or  not." 

"  Why  so  ?  "  queried  Craig,  and  unconsciously  the 
scowl  was  repeated.     "  You  seemed  glad  enough  to 


come." 


> . 


I  was — then,"  shortly. 

"  And  why  not  now  ?  Talk  up,  if  youVe  any  griev 
ance.  Don't  sit  there  like  a  chimpanzee,  hugging  it." 

"  You  know  why  well  enough,"  ignored  the  other. 
He  passed  a  knotty  hand  through  his  shock  of  red 
whiskers  absently.  "  I've  expected  the  devil  or  worse 
here  every  night  these  last  weeks." 

Craig  tried  to  laugh;  but  the  effort  resulted  in 
failure. 

"  God,"  he  satirised,  "  who'd  ever  imagined  you 
were  the  superstitious  sort!  Weren't  you  ever  in  a 
place  where  anyone  died  before?  " 

"  I  never  was  where  a  woman  and  her  child  were 
murdered,"  deliberately. 

Quick  as  thought  Craig's  red  face  whitened. 

"Damn  you,  O'Reilly,"  he  challenged,  "you're 
free  with  your  tongue."  He  checked  himself.  "  I 
don't  wish  to  quarrel  with  you  to-night,  though,"  he 
conciliated. 

"  Nor  I  with  you,"  returned  the  other  impassively. 
"  I  was  merely  telling  you  the  truth.  Besides,  it's 
none  of  my  affair;  and  even  if  it  were,  I'm  thinking 
you'll  pay  for  it  dear  enough  before  you're  through." 

Craig  straightened  in  his  seat;  but  not  as  before  in 
attitude  supercilious. 


294  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

"What  the  deuce  do  you  mean,  O'Reilly?  You 
keep  suggesting  things,  but  that  is  all.  Talk  plain  if 
you  know  anything." 

"I  don't  know  anything,"  impassively;  "unless 
it  is  that  I  wouldn't  be  in  your  shoes  if  I  got  a 
dollar  for  every  cent  youVe  made  out  of  this  cursed 
business." 

Bit  by  bit  Craig's  face  whitened.  If  anything  the 
air  of  conciliation  augmented. 

"  You  think  circumstances  weren't  to  blame?  "  he 
queried.  "  That,  in  other  words,  I've  brought  things 
about  as  they  are  deliberately?  " 

"  I  don't  think  anything.  I  know  what  you've 
done — and  what  you've  got  to  answer  for." 

Instinctively,  almost  with  a  shudder,  Craig  glanced 
about  him. 

The  shade  of  the  single  window  was  up,  and  of 
a  sudden  he  arose  unsteadily  and  drew  it  over  the 
blackness  outside  with  a  jerk. 

"  You're  beastly  hard  on  me,"  he  commented,  "  but 
let  that  pass.  It's  probably  the  last  time  we'll  ever 
see  each  other,  and  we  may  as  well  part  friends." 
He  was  back  in  his  place  again  with  the  flask  be 
fore  him,  and  with  a  propitiatory  motion  he  extended 
the  liquor  toward  the  other  man.  "  Come,  let's  for 
get  it,"  he  insinuated.  "  Have  a  drink  with  me." 

"  Not  a  drop." 

"  Not  if  I  requested  it?  " 

"  Not  if  you  got  down  on  your  knees  and  begged." 

"All  right."     The  hand  was  withdrawn  with  a 


In  Sight  of  God  Alone  295 

nervous  little  laugh.  "  I'll  have  to  spoil  it  all  myself, 
then." 

The  Irishman  watched  in  silence  while  the  other 
gulped  down  swallow  after  swallow.  The  hand  of 
the  drinker  trembled  uncontrollably,  and  a  tiny  red 
stream  trickled  down  the  unshaven  chin  to  the  starched 
linen  beneath. 

"  If  you'll  take  a  word  of  advice,"  commented  the 
spectator  at  last,  "  you'll  cut  that — for  the  time  being 
at  least."  He  hesitated;  then  went  on  reluctantly. 
"  I've  been  in  your  pay  and  I'll  try  to  be  square  with 
you.  If  you've  got  an  atom  of  presentiment  you'll 
realise  that  this  is  no  place  for  you  to  get  into  the 
shape  you're  getting."  Again  he  halted,  and  again 
with  an  effort  he  gave  the  warning  direct.  "  If  I 
were  you  I  wouldn't  be  at  this  ranch  a  second  longer 
than  it  took  me  to  leave;  not  as  long  as  I  had  a 
broncho  or  a  leg  or  a  crutch  to  go  on." 

Slowly  and  more  slowly  came  the  words.  Then 
followed  silence,  with  the  two  men  staring  each  other 
face  to  face.  Breaking  it,  the  overseer  arose. 

"  I've  said  more  than  I  intended  already,"  he 
added,  "  and  now  I  wash  my  hands  of  you.  Do  as 
you  please.  I'm  going  to  bed." 

Preventing,  of  a  sudden  sobered,  Craig  was  like 
wise  on  his  feet. 

"  In  common  decency,  even  if  you're  no  friend  of 
mine,  don't  go,  O'Reilly,"  he  pleaded.  He  had  no 
thought  of  superiority  now,  no  thought  of  malice; 
only  of  companionship  and  of  protection.  "  I  know 


296  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

what  you  mean.  I'm  no  fool,  and  what  you  suggest 
is  exactly  what's  been  driving  me  insane  these  last  two 
days.  I'm  going  in  the  morning,  as  soon  as  it's  day 
light;  the  team  is  all  ordered;  but  to-night,  now " 

instinctively  he  glanced  at  the  window  where  recollec 
tion  pictured  the  darkness  without — "  I  haven't  nerve 
to  face  it  now.  I'd  go  plumb  mad  out  there  alone." 

The  Irishman  shrugged  in  silence  and  attempted  to 
pass. 

"Please  don't  go,"  repeated  Craig  swiftly.  "I 
know  I'm  acting  like  a  child,  but  this  cursed  country's 
to  blame.  Stay  with  me  this  last  night.  I  couldn't 
sleep,  and  it's  madness  to  be  alone.  See  me  through 
this  and  I  swear  you'll  not  regret  it.  I  swear  it !  " 

Just  for  a  second  O'Reilly  paused;  then  of  a  sudden 
his  face  flamed  red  through  his  untrimmed  beard. 

"  To  hell  with  your  money!"  he  blazed.  "I 
wouldn't  lift  my  finger  for  you  if  How  Landor  were 
to  come  this  second."  He  checked  himself  and  took 
a  step  forward  meaningly.  "  Besides,  I  couldn't  help 
you  any  if  I  would.  God  himself  couldn't  protect 
you  now  unless  He  performed  a  miracle.  Out  of  my 
way.  I  tell  you  I'm  done  with  you." 

Craig  had  not  stirred.  He  did  not  now;  and  of 
a  sudden  the  overseer  turned  to  pass  around.  As  he 
did  so  for  the  first  time  he  faced  the  single  window 
that  looked  north  toward  the  second  ranch  house :  the 
house  which  How  Landor  had  builded  to  receive  his 
bride.  The  curtain  was  still  down,  but  to  the  Irish 
man's  quick  eye  there  rested  upon  it  now  a  dull  glow 


In  Sight  of  God  Alone  297 

that  was  not  a  reflection  of  the  light  within.  A 
second  after  he  noticed  the  man  halted,  looking  at  it, 
speculating  as  to  its  meaning.  Then  of  a  sudden  he 
realised;  and  in  two  steps  he  was  across  the  room  and 
simultaneously  the  obscuring  shade  shot  up  with  a 
crash.  Instantly  following,  startlingly  unexpected, 
the  red  glow  without  sprang  through  the  glass  and 
filled  the  room. 

44  Fire  1  "  announced  the  observer  involuntarily  to 
the  sleepers  above.  44  The  other  ranch  house  is 
afire!  "  Then,  as  they  were  slow  in  awakening,  the 
cry  was  repeated  more  loudly:  "  Fire !  Fire !  " 

A  conflagration  is  the  universal  contagion,  the  one 
excitement  that  never  palls.  Forth  into  the  night, 
forgetful  of  his  companion,  forgetful  of  all  save  the 
interest  of  the  moment,  rushed  O'Reilly.  Half 
dressed,  hatless,  working  with  buttons  as  they  went, 
Parker,  the  new  owner,  and  Mead,  the  lawyer,  de 
scended  the  rickety  stairs  like  an  avalanche  and  with 
out  pausing  to  more  than  look  followed  running  in 
his  wake.  The  unused  ranch  house  was  dry  as  card 
board  and  was  burning  fiercely.  Though  there  was 
still  no  moon  and  the  overseer  had  several  minutes 
the  start,  against  the  light  they  could  see  his  running 
figure  distinctly.  Standing  in  the  living-room  as  they 
rushed  through,  white  faced,  hesitant,  was  Clayton 
Craig;  but  though  he  had  spoken  to  them — they  both 
recalled  that  fact  afterward — neither  had  paused  to 
listen  or  to  answer.  That  he  would  not  follow  never: 


298  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

occurred  to  them  until  minutes  thereafter.  Not  until, 
panting,  struggling  for  breath  after  the  unusual  effort, 
they  had  covered  the  intervening  mile,  and  the  heat 
of  the  already  diminishing  fire  was  on  their  faces,  did 
they  think  of  him  at  all.  Even  then  it  was  not  the 
first  thought  which  occurred;  for  the  moment  they 
'arrived  O'Reilly,  who  was  waiting,  turned,  facing 
them  excitedly. 

"  Do  you  see  that?  "  he  queried,  pointing  to  a  black 
band  that  surrounded  the  building  in  a  complete  circle. 

Parker  nodded  understandingly;  but  Mead,  who 
was  city  bred,  looked  mystified.  "  What  is  it?  "  he 
returned. 

"  A  firebreak,"  explained  the  Irishman.  "  Some 
one  didn't  want  the  blaze  to  spread  and  scattered  earth 
clear  around  the  place,  with  a  spade."  Leaning  over 
he  picked  up  a  clod  and  thumbed  it  significantly.  "  It 
hasn't  been  done  a  half  hour.  The  dirt  isn't  even 
dry." 

Brief  as  the  time  had  been,  already  the  frail  walls 
were  settling  to  embers.  There  was  nothing  to  do; 
and  standing  there  the  three  men  looked  understand 
ingly  into  each  other's  faces.  The  same  thought 
stood  clear  on  all;  for  all  alike  knew  every  detail  of 
the  story. 

"The  Indian,  How  Landor,"  suggested  Mead 
adequately. 

"  Yes,"  corroborated  Parker,  "  and  I'm  glad  of  it. 
I'm  not  squeamish,  but  the  Lord  knows  I'd  never 
have  used  the  place  myself." 


In  Sight  of  God  Alone  299 

Of  a  sudden,  O'Reilly,  who  had  turned  and  was 
staring  into  the  blaze,  faced  about.  That  second  he 
had  remembered. 

"Where's  Craig?"  he  queried  swiftly,  glancing 
back  the  way  they  had  come.  "  Didn't  he  follow?  " 

Until  that  moment  none  of  the  three  had  thought 
of  the  other  man.  Now  they  realised  that  they  were 
alone.  But  even  then  two  of  the  trio  did  not  under 
stand. 

"Evidently  he  didn't  start,"  said  Mead.  "  He 
couldn't  have  missed  the  light  if  he  did." 

"  I  remember  now  he  was  standing  by  the  door 
jyhen  we  left,"  added  Parker. 

"  Standing  by  the  door,  was  he  ?  "  took  up  the  Irish 
man  swiftly.  "  As  there's  a  Heaven  and  a  Hell  he's 
not  standing  there  now,  I'll  wager !  " 

Again  face  to  face,  as  when  they  had  first  caught 
sight  of  that  meaning  black  band,  the  three  spectators 
there  beneath  the  stars  stood  staring  at  each  other.  It 
was  O'Reilly  again  who  broke  the  silence. 

"  Don't  you  people  understand  yet  what  this 
all  means,  what's  happened?"  he  interrogated  un 
believingly. 

"  It  means  there's  been  an  incendiary  here ;  I  gness 
there's  no  doubt  about  that,"  said  Mead. 

"  Yes,"  blurted  O'Reilly,  "  and  that  incendiary's 
How  Landor,  and  he's  been  here  within  the  half  hour; 
and  Craig's  been  alone  back  there  in  the  ranch  house." 
He  paused  for  breath.  "  Can't  you  see  now?  At 
Jast  the  Indian  has  found  out  I  " 


3oo  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

For  the  fraction  of  a  minute,  while  understanding 
came  home,  not  a  man  stirred.  Then  of  a  sudden 
Parker  turned  swiftly  and  started  back  into  the 
night. 

uBy  the  Eternal,"  he  corroborated,  "I  believe 
you're  right.  We  can't  get  there  a  second  too 
quick." 

"  Too  quick !  "  caught  up  the  Irishman  for  the 
last  time.  "  We  couldn't  get  there  quick  enough  if 
we  had  wings.  It's  all  over  before  this,  take  my 
word  for  it." 

•  •  •  •  • 

And  it  was.  Though  the  men  ran  every  step  of  the 
mile  back  they  were  too  late.  As  O'Reilly  had  antici 
pated,  the  ranch  house  was  empty,  deserted.  Similarly 
the  stables  hard  by.  Likewise  the  adjoining  tool  shed. 
Though  they  searched  every  nook,  until  a  mouse  could 
not  have  escaped  detection,  they  found  not  a  trace  of 
him  for  whom  they  looked,  nor  a  clue  to  his  disappear 
ance.  Though  they  shouted  his  name  until  they  were 
hoarse  not  an  answer  came  back  from  the  surrounding 
darkness.  Within  the  ranch  house  itself,  or  upon  the 
dooryard  without,  there  was  no  sign  of  a  struggle  or 
of  aught  unusual.  The  living-room  was  precisely  as 
it  had  been  at  that  last  moment  when  O'Reilly  had 
left.  Craig's  cap  and  topcoat  were  on  a  chair  as  he 
had  thrown  them  down.  At  the  stable  every  horse 
was  within  its  own  stall :  every  piece  of  saddlery  was 
intact.  While  the  three  men  were  looking,  attracted 
by  the  blaze,  the  distant  cowboys  one  by  one  began 


In  Sight  of  God  Alone  301 

'drifting  in;  and  when  they  had  heard  the  tale  joined 
in  the  search.  All  through  the  night,  in  ever-widen 
ing  circles,  lanterns,  like  giant  fireflies,  played  around 
the  premises  until  they  covered  a  radius  of  a  half  mile ; 
but  ever  the  report  was  the  same.  With  the  coming 
of  morning  not  the  home  force  alone  but  men  from 
distant  ranches  appeared.  The  reflection  of  fire  on 
the  sky  reaches  far  indeed  on  the  prairie,  and  ere  the 
sun  shone  again  a  goodly  company  was  assembled. 
Then  it  was  that  the  real  search  began  and  a  swarm 
of  riders  scoured  the  country  for  miles  and  miles. 
And  once  more,  from  all,  the  testimony  was  as  before. 
There  was  not  a  clue  to  the  disappearance,  nor  the 
semblance  of  a  clue.  As  out  of  the  darkness  of  night 
surrounding,  a  great  horned  owl  swoops  down  upon 
its  prey,  and  as  mysteriously  disappears,  so  the  Indian 
had  come  and  gone;  and  satisfied  at  last,  irresistibly 
awed  as  well  into  an  unwonted  quiet,  one  by  one,  as 
they  had  arrived,  the  ranchers  dispersed — and  the 
search  was  over. 

And  to  this  day  that  disappearance  remains  a  mys 
tery  unsurmountable.  One  morning  a  week  later,  after 
Mead  and  O'Reilly  had  gone,  when  the  new  master 
of  the  ranch  arose  it  was  to  find  a  wicked-looking 
mouse-coloured  cayuse  standing  motionless  by  the 
stable  door.  Upon  him  was  neither  saddle  nor  bridle 
nor  mark  of  any  kind.  Somewhere  out  on  that  limit 
less  waste  he  had  been  released,  and,  true  to  an  un 
erring  homing  instinct,  he  had  returned;  but  from 
where  no  man  could  do  more  than  speculate.  He 


302  Where  the  Trail  Divides 

could  not  speak,  and  his  rider  was  seen  no  more. 
Somewhere  out  there  amid  that  same  solitude  a  thing 
of  mystery  had  come  to  pass;  but  what  it  was  only 
Nature  and  Nature's  God,  who  alone  were  witness, 
could  ever  know. 


THE  END 


Popular   Copyright   Books 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Any    of    the    following    titles    can    be    bought    of    your 
bookseller    at    the    price    you    paid    for    this    volume 


Alternative,  The.    By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Angel  of  Forgiveness,  The.    By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 

Angel  of  Pain,  The.    By  E.  F.  Benson. 

Annals  of  Ann,  The,     By  Kate  Trimble  Sharber. 

Battle  Ground,  The.     By  Ellen  Glasgow. 

Beau  Brocade.     By  Baroness  Orczy. 

Beechy.     By  Bettina  Von  Hutten. 

Bella  Donna.    By  Robert  Hichens. 

Betrayal,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Bill  Toppers,  The.    By  Andre  Castaigne. 

Butterfly  Man,  The.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Cab  No.  44.    By  R.  F.  Foster. 

Calling  of  Dan  Matthews,  The.     By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Cape  Cod  Stories.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Challoners,  The,     By  E.  F.  Benson. 

City  of  Six,  The.    By  C.  L.  Canfield. 

Conspirators,  The      By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Dan  Merrithew.     By  Lawrence  Perry. 

Day  of  the  Dog,  The.    By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Depot  Master,  The.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Derelicts.     By  William  J.  Locke. 

Diamonds  Cut  Paste.     By  Agnes  &  Egerton  Castle. 

Early  Bird,  The.     By  George  Randolph  Chester. 

Eleventh  Hour,  The.    By  David  Potter. 

Elizabeth  in  Rugen.     By  the  author  of  Elizabeth  and  Her 

German  Garden. 

Flying  Mercury,  The.    By  Eleanor  M.  Ingram. 
Gentleman,  The.     By  Alfred  Ollivant. 
Girl  Who  Won,  The.    By  Beth  Ellis. 
Going  Some.    By  Rex  Beach. 
Hidden  Water.     By  Dane  Coolidge. 

Honor  of  the  Big  Snows,  The.    By  James  Oliver  Curwood. 
Hopalong  Cassidy.     By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 
House  of  the  Whispering  Pines,  The.     By  Anna  Katherine 

Green. 
Imprudence  of  Prue,  The.    By  Sophie  Fisher. 


Popular   Copyright   Books 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Any    of  the    following    titles    can    be    bought    of  your 
bookseller    at    the    price     you    paid    for    this    volume 


In  the  Service  of  the  Princess.    By  Henry  C.  Rowland. 
Island  of  Regeneration,  The.     By  Cyrus  Townsend  Brady. 
Lady  of  Big  Shanty,  The.    By  Berkeley  F.  Smith. 
Lady  Merton,  Colonist.     By  Mrs.  Humphrey  Ward. 
Lord  Loveland  Discovers  America.    By  C.  N.  &    A.  M.  Wil 
liamson. 

Love  the  Judge.     By  Wymond  Carey. 
Man  Outside,  The,    By  Wyndham  Martyn. 
Marriage  of  Theodora,  The.     By  Molly  Elliott  Seawell. 
My  Brother's  Keeper.     By  Charles  Tenny  Jackson. 
My  Lady  of  the  South.    By  Randall  Parrish. 
Paternoster  Ruby,  The.    By  Charles  Edmonds  Walk. 
Politician,  The.     By  Edith   Huntington  Mason. 
Pool  of  Flame,  The.    By  Louis  Joseph  Viance. 
Poppy.     By  Cynthia  Stockley. 

Redemption  of  Kenneth  Gait,  The.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 
Rejuvenation  of  Aunt  Mary,  The.    By  Anna  Warner. 
Road  to  Providence,  The.    By  Maria  Thompson  Davies. 
Romance  of  a  Plain  Man,  The.    By  Ellen  Glasgow. 
Running  Fight,  The.     By  Wm.  Hamilton  Osborne. 
Septimus.    By  William  J.  Locke. 
Silver  Horde,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 
Spirit  Trail,  The.    By  Kate  &  Virgil  D.  Boyles. 
Stanton  Wins.     By  Eleanor  M.  Ingram. 
Stolen  Singer,  The.     By  Martha  Bellinger. 
Three  Brothers,  The.    By  Eden  Phillpotts. 
Thurston  of  Orchard  Valley.     By  Harold  Bindloss. 
Title  Market,  The.     By  Emily  Post. 
Vigilante  Girl,  A.     By  Jerome  Hart. 
Village  of  Vagabonds,  A.    By  F.  Berkeley  Smith. 
Wanted — A  Chaperon.     By  Paul  Leicester  Ford. 
Wanted:     A  Matchmaker.     By  Paul  Leicester  Ford. 
Watchers  of  the  Plains,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 
White  Sister,  The*.     By  Marion  Crawford. 
Window  at  the  White  Cat,  The.  By  Mary  Roberts  Rhineharf. 
Woman  in  Question,  The.     By  John  Reed  Scott. 


Popular  Copyright  Books 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Any  of  the  following  titles  can  be  bought  of  youi 
bookseller   at   the   price   you   paid   for   this   volume 


Anna  the  Adventuress.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Ann  Boyd.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

At  The  Moorings.    By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 

By  Right  of  Purchase.     By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Carlton  Case,  The.    By  Ellery  H.  Clark. 

Chase  of  the  Golden  Plate.    By  Jacques  Futrelle. 

Cash  Intrigue,  The.    By  George  Randolph  Chester. 

Delafield  Affair,  The.    By  Florence  Finch  Kelly. 

Dominant  Dollar,  The.    By  Will  Lillibridge. 

Elusive  Pimpernel,  The.    By  Baroness  Orczy. 

Canton  &  Co.    By  Arthur  J.  Eddy. 

Gilbert  Neal.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Girl  and  the  Bill,  The.    By  Bannister  Merwin. 

Girl  from  His  Town,  The.    By  Marie  Van  Vorst. 

Glass  House,  The.    By  Florence  Morse  Kingsley. 

Highway  of  Fate,  The.    By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 

Homesteaders,  The.     By  Kate  and  Virgil  D.  Boyles. 

Husbands  of  Edith,  The.     George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Inez.     (Illustrated  Ed.)     By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 

Into  the  Primitive.    By  Robert  Ames  Bennet. 

Jack  Spurlock,  Prodigal.    By  Horace  Lorimer. 

Jude  the  Obscure.    By  Thomas  Hardy. 

King  Spruce.    By  Holman  Day. 

Kingsmead.    By  Bettina  Von  Hutten. 

Ladder  of  Swords,  A.    By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Lorimer  of  the  Northwest.    By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Lorraine.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Loves  of  Miss  Anne,  The.    By  S.  R.  Crockett, 


Popular  Copyright  Books 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Any  of  the  following  titles  can  be  bought  of  your 
bookseller   at   the    price    you   paid   for    this   volume 


Marcaria.    By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 

Mam'  Linda.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Maids  of  Paradise,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Man  in  the  Corner,  The.     By  Baroness  Orczy. 

Marriage  A  La  Mode.     By  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward. 

Master  Mummer,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Much  Ado  About  Peter.     By  Jean  Webster. 

Old,  Old  Story,  The.    By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 

Pardners.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Patience  of  John  Moreland,  The.    By  Mary  Dillon. 

Paul  Anthony,  Christian.    By  Hiram  W.  Hays. 

Prince  of  Sinners,  A.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Prodigious  Hickey,  The.     By  Owen  Johnson. 

Red  Mouse,  The.     By  William  Hamilton  Osborne. 

Refugees,  The.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Round  the  Corner  in  Gay  Street.    Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Rue :  With  a  Difference.    By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 

Set  in  Silver.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

;St.  Elmo.    By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 

Silver  Blade,  The.    By  Charles  E.  Walk. 

Spirit  in  Prison,  A.    By  Robert  Hichens. 

Strawberry  Handkerchief,  The.    By  Amelia  E.  Barn 

Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles.    By  Thomas  Hardy. 

Uncle  William.    By  Jennette  Lee. 

Way  of  a  Man,  The.     By  Emerson  Hough. 

Whirl,  The.    By  Foxcroft  Davis. 

With  Juliet  in  England.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Yellow  Circle,  The.    By  Charles  E.  Walk. 


Popular  Copyright  Books 

AT    MODERATE    PRICES 

Any  of  the  following  titles  can  be  bought  of  your 
bookseller  at  50  cents  per  volume. 


|The  Shepherd  of  the  Hills.    By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 
Jane  Cable.    By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 
Abner  Daniel.     By  Will  N.  Harben. 
The  Far  Horizon.     By  Lucas  Malet. 
The  Halo.     By  Bettina  von  Hutten. 
Jerry  Junior.    By  Jean  Webster. 

The  Powers  and  Maxine.     By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 
The  Balance  of  Power.    By  Arthur  Goodrich. 
Adventures  of  Captain  Kettle.    By  Cutcliffe  Hyne. 
Adventures  of  Gerard.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 
Adventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 
Arm3  and  the  Woman.    By  Harold  MacGrath. 
Artemus  Ward's  Works   (extra  illustrated). 
At  the  Mercy  of  Tiberius.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 
Awakening  of  Helena  Richie.     By  Margaret  Deland. 
Battle  Ground,  The.     By  Ellen  Glasgow. 
Belle  of  Bowling  Green,  The.     By  Amelia  E.  Barr. 
Ben  Blair.     By  Will  Lillibridge. 
Best  Man,  The.    By  Harold  MacGrath. 
Beth  Norvell.    By  Randall  Parrish. 
Bob  Hampton  of  Placer.    By  Randall  Parrish. 
Bob,  Son  of  Battle.     By  Alfred  Ollivant. 
Brass  Bowl,  The.    By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 
Brethren,  The.     By  H.  Rider  Haggard. 
Broken  Lance,  The.     By   Herbert   Quick. 
By  Wit  of  Women.    By  Arthur  W.  Marchmont  i 

Gall  of  the  Blood,  The.    By  Robert  Kitchens. 
Cap'n  Eri.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
Cardigan.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 
Car  of  Destiny,  The.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  N.  Williamson. 
Casting  Away  of  Mrs.  Leeks  and  Mrs.  Aleshine.    By  Frank 

R.  Stockton. 
Cecilia's  Lovers.    By  Amelia  E.  Barr. 


Popular  Copyright  Books 

AT    MODERATE    PRICES 

Any  of  the  following  titles  can  be  bought  of  your 
bookseller  at  50  cents  per  volume. 


JCircle,  The.     By  Katherine  Cecil  Thurston  (author  of  "The 

Masquerader,"  "The  Gambler"). 

'Colonial  Free  Lance,  A.    By  Chatmcey  C.  Hotchkis»s. 
Conquest  of  Canaan,  The.    By  Booth  Tarkington. 
Courier  of  Fortune,  A.    By  Arthur  W.  Marchmont. 
Darrow  Enigma,  The.    By  Melvin  Severy. 
Deliverance,  The.    By  Ellen  Glasgow. 
Divine  Fire,  The.     By  May  Sinclair. 
Empire  Builders.    By  Franeis  Lynde. 
Exploits  of  Brigadier  Gerard.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 
Fighting  Chance,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 
For  a  Maiden  Brave.    By  Chauncejy  C.  Hotchkiss. 

Fugitive  Blacksmith,  The.    By  Chas.  D.  Stewart. 
God's  Good  Man.    By  Marie  Corelli. 
Heart's  Highway,  The.    By  Mary  E.  Wilkins. 
Holladay  Case,  The.    By  Burton  Egbert  Stevenson. 
Hurricane  Island.    By  H.  B.  Marriott  Watson. 
In  Defiance  of  the  King.     By  Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss. 
Indifference  of  Juliet,  The.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 
Infelice.    By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Lady  Betty  Across  the  Water.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Will-/ 

iamson. 

Lady  of  the  Mount,  The.    By  Frederic  S.  I  sham. 
Lane  That  Had  No  Turning,  The.    By  Gilbert  Parker. 
Langford  of  the  Three  Bars.     By  Kate  and  Virgil  D.  Boyles. 
Last  Trail,  The.     By  Zane  Grey. 
Leavenworth  Case,  The.    By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 
Lilac  Sunbonnet,  The.    By  S.  R.  Crockett. 
Lin  McLean.    By  Owen  Wister. 
Long  Night,  The.     By  Stanley  J.  Weyman. 
Maid  at  Arms,  The,    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 


Popular  Copyright  Books 

AT    MODERATE    PRICES 

Any  of  the  following  titles  can  be  bought  of  your 
bookseller  at  50  cents  per  volume. 


;Man  from  Red  Keg,  The.     By  Eugene  Thwing. 

'Marthon  Mystery,  The.    By  Burton  Egbert  Stevenson. 

Memoirs  of  Sherlock  Holmes.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Millionaire  Baby,  The.     By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Missourian,  The.     By  Eugene  P.  Lyle,  Jr. 

Mr.  Barnes,  American.    By  A.  C.  Gunter. 

Mr.  Pratt.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

My  Friend  the  Chauffeur.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

My  Lady  of  the  North.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Mystery  of  June  13th.     By  Melvin  L.  Severy. 

Mystery  Tales.     By  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

Nancy  Stair.     By  Elinor  Macartney  Lane. 

Order  No.  11.    By  Caroline  Abbot  Stanley. 

Pam.     By  Bettina  von  Hutten. 

Pam  Decides.    By  Bettina  von  Hutten. 

Partners  of  the  Tide.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Phra  the  Phoenician.     By  Edwin  Lester  Arnold. 

President,  The.    By  Afred  Henry  Lewis. 

Princess  Passes,  The.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Princess  Virginia,  The.     By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Prisoners.     By  Mary  Cholmondeley. 

Private  War,  The.    By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

Prodigal  Son,  The.    By  Hall  Caine. 

Quickening,  The.    By  Francis  Lynde. 

Richard  the  Brazen.    By  Cyrus  T.  Brady  and  Edw.  Peple. 

Rose  of  the  World.     By  Agnes  and  Egerton  Castle. 

Running  Water.    By  A.  E.  W.  Mason. 

Sarita  the  Carlist.     By  Arthur  W.  Marchmont 

Seats  of  the  Mighty,  The.     By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Sir  Nigel.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Sir  Richard  Calmady.     By  Lucas  Malet. 

Speckled  Bird,  A,    By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 


Popular  Copyright  Books 

AT    MODERATE    PRICES 

Any  of  the  following  titles  can  be  bought  of  your 
bookseller  at  50  cents  per  volume. 


Spirit  of  the  Border,  The.     By  Zane  Grey. 

Spoilers,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Squire  Phin.     By  Holman  F.  Day. 

Stooping  Lady,  The.       By  Maurice  Hewlett. 

Subjection  of  Isabel  Carnaby.  By  Ellen  Thorneycroft  Fowler. 

Sunset  Trail,  The.     By  Alfred  Henry  Lewis. 

Sword  of  the  Old  Frontier,  A.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Tales  of  Sherlock  Holmes.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

That  Printer  of  Udell's.     By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Throwback,  The.     By  Alfred  Henry  Lewis. 

Trail  of  the  Sword,  The.     By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Treasure  of  Heaven,  The.     By  Marie  Corelli. 

Two  Vanrevels,  The.     By  Booth  Tarkington. 

Up  From  Slavery.    By  Booker  T.  Washington. 

Vashti.     By  Augusta  Evans   Wilson. 

Viper  of  Milan,  The  (original  edition).    By  Marjorie  Bowen. 

Voice  of  the  People,  The.    By  Ellen  Glasgow. 

Wheel  of  Life,  The.     By  Ellen  Glasgow. 

When  Wilderness  Was  King.    By  Randall  Parrish. 
Where  the  Trail  Divides.     By  Will  Lillibridge. 
Woman  in  Grey,  A.     By  Mrs.  C.  N.  Williamson. 
Woman  in  the  Alcove,  The.    By  Anna  Katharine  Green- 
*  Younger  Set,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 
The  Weavers.    By  Gilbert  Parker. 

The  Little  Brown  Jug  at  Kildare.    By  Meredith  Nicholson. 
The  Prisoners  of  Chance.     By  Randall  Parrish. 
My  Lady  of  Cleve.    By  Percy  J.  Hartley. 
Loaded  Dice.     By  Ellery  H.  Clark. 

Get  Rich  Quick  Wallingford.    By  George  Randolph  Ghes*«r. 
The  Orphan.    By  Clarence  Mulford. 
A  Gentleman  of  France,    By  Stanley  J.  Weyman. 


Popular  Copyright  Books 

AT    MODERATE    PRICES 

Any  of  the  following  titles  can  be  bought  of  your 
bookseller  at  50  cents  per  volume. 


Purple  Parasol,  The.    By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Princess  Dehra,  The.    By  John  Reed  Scott. 

Making  of  Bobby  Burnit,  The.    By  George  Randolph 

Chester. 
Last  Voyage  of  the  Donna  Isabel,  The.    By  Randall 

Parrish. 

Bronze  Bell,  The.    By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 
Pole  Baker.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 
Four  Million,  The.    By  O.  Henry. 
Idols.    By  William  J.  Locke. 
Wayfarers,  The.    By  Mary  Stewart  Cutting. 
Held  for  Orders.    By  Frank  H.  Spearman. 
Story  of  the  Outlaw,  The.    By  Emerson  Hough. 
Mistress  of  Brae  Farm,  The.    By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 
Explorer,  The.    By  William  Somerset  Maugham. 
Abbess  of  Vlaye,  The.    By  Stanley  Weyman. 
Alton  of  Somasco.    By  Harold  Bindloss. 
Ancient  Law,  The.    By  Ellen  Glasgow. 
Barrier,  The.    By  Rex  Beach. 
Bar  20.    By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 
Beloved  Vagabond,  The.    By  William  J.  Locke. 
Beulah.     (Illustrated  Edition.)     By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 
Chaperon,  The.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 
Colonel  Greatheart.    By  H.  C.  Bailey. 
Dissolving  Circle,  The.    By  Will  Lillibridge. 
Elusive  Isabel.    By  Jacques  Futrelle. 
Fair  Moon  of  Bath,  The.    By  Elizabeth  Ellis. 
54-40  or  Fight    By  Emerson  Hough. 


Good  Fiction  Worth  Reading. 

A  series  of  romances  containing  several  of  the  old  favorites  in  the  field 
of  historical  fiction,  replete  with  powerful  romances  of  love  and  diplomacy 
that  excel  in  thrilling  and  absorbing  interest. 


f  DARNLEY.  A  Romance  of  the  times  of  Henry  VIII.  and  Cardinal  Wolsey  „ 
By  G.  P.  R.  James.  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis. 
ITice,  $1.00. 

In  point  of  publication,  "Darnley"  is  that  work  by  Mr.  James  which 
follows  "Richelieu,"  and,  If  rumor  can  be  credited,  it  was  owing  to  the  ad- 
Tiee  and  insistence  of  our  own  Washington  Irving  that  we  are  indebted 
primarily  for  the  story,  the  young  author  questioning  whether  he  could 
properly  paint  the  difference  in  the  characters  of  the  two  great  cardinals. 
And  it  is  not  surprising  that  James  should  have  hesitated;  he  had  been 
eminently  successful  in  giving  to  the  world  the  portrait  of  Richelieu  as  a 
man,  and  by  attempting  a  similar  task  with  Wolsey  as  the  theme,  was 
much  like  tempting  fortune.  Irving  insisted  that  "Darnley"  came  natur 
ally  in  sequence,  and  this  opinion  being  supported  by  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
the  author  set  about  the  work. 

As  a  historical  romance  "Darnley"  Is  a  book  that  can  be  taken  up 
pleasurably  again  and  again,  for  there  is  about  it  that  subtle  charm  which 
thoae  who  are  strangers  to  the  works  of  G.  P.  R.  James  have  claimed  was 
only  to  be  imparted  by  Dumas. 

If  there  was  nothing  more  about  the  work  to  attract  especial  attention, 
the  account  of  the  meeting  of  the  kings  on  the  historic  "field  of  the  cloth  of 
gold"  would  entitle  the  story  to  the  most  favorable  consideration  of  every 
reader. 

There  is  really  but  little  pure  romance  in  this  story,  for  the  author  has 
taken  care  to  imagine  love  passages  only  between  those  whom  history  has 
credited  with  haying  entertained  the  tender  passion  one  for  another,  and 
he  succeeds  in  making  such  lovers  as  all  the  world  must  love. 

CAPTAIN  BRAND,  OP  THE  SCHOONER  CENTIPEDE.  By  I,ieut. 
Henry  A.  Wise,  U.  S.  N.  (Harry  Gringo).  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustra 
tions  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

The  re-publication  of  this  story  will  please  those  lovers  of  sea  yarn* 
•who  delight  in  so  much  of  the  salty  flavor  of  the  ocean  as  can  come  through 
the  medium  of  a  printed  page,  for  never  has  a  story  of  the  sea  and  those 
"who  go  down  in  ships"  been  written  by  one  more  familiar  with  the  scenes 
depicted. 

The  one  book  of  this  gifted  author  which  is  best  remembered,  and  whiclt 
•Will  be  read  with  pleasure  for  many  years  to  come,  is  "Captain  Brand," 
who,  as  the  author  states  on  his  title  page,  was  a  "pirate  of  eminence  ire 
the  West  Indies."  As  a  sea  story  pure  and  simple,  "Captain  Brand"  has 
never  been  excelled,,  and  as  a  story  of  piratical  life,  told  without  the  usual 
«mbellishments  of  blood  and  thunder,  it  has  no  equal. 

NICK  OP  THE  WOODS.  A  story  of  the  Early  Settlers  of  Kentucky.  By 
Bobert  Montgomery  Bird.  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

This  most  popular  novel  and  thrilling  story  of  early  frontier  life  In 
Kentucky  was  originally  published  in  the  year  1837.  The  novel,  long  out  of 
print,  had  in  its  day  a  phenomenal  sale,  for  its  realistic  presentation  of 
Indian  and  frontier  life  in  the  early  days  of  settlement  in  the  South,  nar 
rated  in  the  tale  with  all  the  art  of  a  practiced  writer.  A  very  charming- 
love  romance  runs  through  the  story.  This  new  and  tasteful  edition  of 
"Nick  of  the  Woods"  will  be  certain  to  make  many  new  admirers  for 
this  enchanting  story  from  Dr.  Bird's  clever  and  versatile  pen. 

Itor  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the  pub 
lishers,  A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY,  52-58  Duane  St.,  New  York. 


Good  Fiction  Worth  Reading. 

A  series  of  romances  containing  several  of  the  old  favorites  in  the  field 
of  historical  fiction,  replete  •with  powerful  romances  of  love  and  diplomacy 
that  excel  in  thrilling  and  absorbing  interest. 


WINDSOR  CASTLE.  A  Historical  Romance  of  the  Reign-of  Henry  VIII., 
Catharine  of  Aragon  and  Anne  Boleyn.  By  Wm.  Harrison  Ainsworth.  Cloth, 
»2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank.  Price,  $1.00. 

"Windsor  Castle"  is  the  story  of  Henry  VIII.,  Catharine,  and  Anne 
Boleyn.  "Bluff  King  Hal,"  although  a  well-loved  monarch,  was  none  too 
good  a  one  in  many  ways.  Of  all  his  selfishness  and  unwarrantable  acts, 
none  was  more  discreditable  than  his  divorce  from  Catharine,  and  his  mar 
riage  to  the  beautiful  Anne  Boleyn.  The  King's  love  was  as  brief  as  it 
was  vehement.  Jane  Seymour,  waiting  maid  on  the  Queen,  attracted  him, 
and  Anne  Boleyn  was  forced  to  the  block  to  make  room  for  her  successor. 
This  romance  is  one  of  extreme  interest  to  all  readers. 

!  HORSESHOE  ROBINSON.  A  tale  of  the  Tory  Ascendency  in  South  Caro 
lina  in  1780.  By  John  P.  Kennedy.  Cloth,  I2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J. 
SVatson  Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

Among  the  old  favorites  in  the  field  of  what  is  known  aa  historical  fic 
tion,  there  are  none  which  appeal  to  a  larger  number  of  Americans  than 
Horseshoe  Robinson,  and  this  because  it  is  the  only  story  wlfich  depict* 
nylth  fidelity  to  the  facts  the  heroic  efforts  of  the  colonists  in  South  Caro 
lina  to  defend  their  homes  against  the  brutal  oppression  of  the  British 
Under  such  leaders  as  Cornwallis  and  Tarleton. 

The  reader  is  charmed  with  the  story  of  love  which  forms  the  thread 
of  the  tale,  and  then  impressed  with  the  wealth  of  detail  concerning  those 
times.  The  picture  of  the  manifold  sufferings  of  the  people,  is  never  over- 
flrawn,  but  painted  faithfully  and  honestly  by  one  who  spared  neither 
time  nor  labor  in  his  efforts  to  present  in  this  charming  love  story  all  that 
price  in  blood  and  tears  which  the  Carolinians  paid  as  their  share  in  the 
Winning  of  the  republic. 

Take  it  all  in  all,  "Horseshoe  Robinson"  is  a  work  which  should  be 
found  on  every  book-shelf,  not  only  because  it  is  a  most  entertaining 
etory,  but  because  of  the  wealth  of  valuable  information  concerning  the 
colonists  which  it  contains.  That  it  has  been  brought  out  once  more,  well 
Illustrated,  is  something  which  will  give  pleasure  to  thousands  who  have 
long  desired  an  opportunity  to  read  the  story  again,  and  to  the  many  who 
have  tried  vainly  in  these  latter  days  to  procure  a  copy  that  they  might 
read  it  for  the  first  time. 

THE  PEARL  OF  ORR'S  ISLAND.  A  story  of  the  Coast  of  Maine.  By 
Harriet  Beecher  Stowe.  Cloth,  i2mo.  Illustrated.  Price,  $1.00. 

Written  prior  to  1862,  the  "Peart  of  GIT'S  Island"  Is  ever  new;  a  book 
filled  with  delicate  fancies,  such  as  seemingly  array  themselves  anew  each' 
lime  one  reads  them.  One  sees  the  "sea  like  an  unbroken  mirror  all( 
around  the  pine-girt,  lonely  shores  of  GIT'S  Island,"  and  straightway 
cornes  "the  heavy,  hollow  moan  of  the  surf  on  the  beach,  like  the  wild 
angry  howl  of  some  savage  animal." 

Who  can  read  of  the  beginning  of  that  sweet  life,  named  Mara,  which 
came  into  this  world  under  the  very  shadow  of  the  Death  angel's  wings, 
xvithout  having  an  intense  desire  to  know  how  the  premature  bud  blos 
somed?  Again  and  again  one  lingers  over  the  descriptions  of  the  char 
acter  of  that  baby  boy  Moses,  who  came  through  the  tempest,  amid  the 
»,ngry  billows,  pillowed  on  his  dead  mother's  breast. 

There  is  no  more  faithful  portrayal  of  New  England  life  than  that 
•which  Mrs.  Stowe  gives  in  "The  Pearl  of  Orr's  Island." 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  tfce  pub* 
Ushers,  A,  L.  BURT  COMPANY,  52-58  Duane  St.,  New  York, 


Good  Fiction  Worth  Reading. 

A  series  of  romances  containing  several  of  the  old  favorites  in  the  field 
of  historical  fiction,  replete  with  powerful  romances  of  love  and  diplomacy 
that  excel  in  thrilling  and  absorbing  interest. 


'  GUY  FAWXES.  A  Romance  of  the  Gunpowder  Treason.  By  Win.  Harrf* 
son  Ainsworth.  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank, 
Price,  $1.00. 

The  "Gunpowder  Plot"  was  a  modest  attempt  to  blow  up  Parliament. 
the  King  and  his  Counsellors.  James  of  Scotland,  then  King  of  England^ 
"was  weak-minded  and  extravagant.  He  hit  upon  the  efficient  scheme  of 
extorting  money  from  the  people  by  imposing  taxes  on  the  Catholics.  In 
their  natural  resentment  to  this  extortion,  a  handful  of  bold  spirits  con 
cluded  to  overthrow  the  government.  Finally  the  plotters  were  arrested, 
and  the  King  put  to  torture  Guy  Fawkes  and  the  other  prisoners  with* 
royal  vigor.  A  very  intense  love  story  runs  through  the  entire  romance. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  BORDER.  A  Romance  of  the  Early  Settlers  In  the 
Ohio  Valley.  By  Zane  Grey.  Cloth,  izmo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson* 
Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

A  book  rather  out  of  the  ordinary  Is  this  "Spirit  of  the  Border."  Thi 
main  thread  of  the  story  has  to  do  with  the  work  of  the  Moravian  mis 
sionaries  in  the  Ohio  Valley.  Incidentally  the  reader  is  given  details  of  the 
frontier  life  of  those  hardy  pioneers  who  broke  the  wilderness  for  the  plant 
ing  of  this  great  nation.  Chief  among  these,  as  a  matter  of  course,  la 
lewis  Wetzel,  one  of  the  most  peculiar,  and  at  the  same  time  the  most 
admirable  of  all  the  brave  men  who  spent  their  lives  battling  with  the 
savage  foe,  that  others  might  dwell  in  comparative  security. 

Details  of  the  establishment  and  destruction  of  the  Moravian  "Village 
«f  Peace"  are  given  at  some  length,  and  with  minute  description.  The 
efforts  to  Christianize  the  Indians  are  described  as  they  never  have  been 
"before,  and  the  author  has  depicted  the  characters  of  the  leaders  of  the 
several  Indian  tribes  with  great  care,  which  of  itself  will  be  of  interest  td 
the  student. 

By  no  means  least  among  the  charms  of  the  story  are  the  vlvfd  word- 
pictures  of  the  thrilling  adventures,  and  the  intense  paintings  of  the  beau 
ties  of  nature,  as  seen  in  the  almost  unbroken  forests. 

It  Is  the  spirit  of  the  frontier  which  is  described,  and  one  can  by  It. 
perhaps,  the  better  understand  why  men,  and  women,  too,  willingly  braved 
«very  privation  and  danger  that  the  westward  progress  of  the  star  of  em 
pire  might  be  the  rnore  certain  and  rapid.  A  love  story,  simple  and  tender; 
runs  through  the  book. 

RICHELIEU.  A  tale  of  France  in  the  reign  of  King  £ouis  xni.  By  G.  P, 
R.  James.  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  Ji.oo. 

In  1829  Mr.  James  published  his  first  romance,  "Richelieu,"  and  waa 
Recognized  at  once  as  one  of  the  masters  of  the  craft. 

In  this  book  he  laid  the  story  during  those  later  days  of  the  great  car 
dinal's  life,  when  his  power  was  beginning  to  wane,  but  while  it  was 
yet  sufficiently  strong  to  pe-mit  now  and  then  of  volcanic  outbursts  which 
overwhelmed  foes  and  carried  friends  to  the  topmost  wave  of  prosperity. 
One  of  the  most  striking  portions  of  the  story  is  that  of  Cinq  Mar's  conspir 
acy;  the  method  of  conducting  criminal  cases,  and  the  political  trickery- 
resorted  to  by  royal  favorites,  affording  a  better  insight  into  the  state 
craft  of  that  day  than  can  be  had  even  by  an  exhaustive  study  of  history. 
It  is  a  powerful  romance  of  love  and  diplomacy,  and  tn  point  of  thrilling 
and  absorbing  interest  has  never  been  excelled. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the  pub* 
toners,  A,  L.  BURT  COMPANY,  53-58  Duanc  St.,  New  Yprk. 


YB 


